MYSTERIOUS 

INDIA 


ROBERT  CHAUVELO 


MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 


A   TIGER  HUNT   UNDER   THE   GREAT   MOGULS 
(From  an  Indo- Persian  painting  of  the  sixteenth  century) 


MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

Its  Rajahs  -  Its  Brahmans  -  Its  Fakirs 

BY 

ROBERT  CHAUVELOT 


ILLUSTRATED     WITH 
SIXTY  PHOTOGRAPHS 


TRANSLATED  BY 

ELEANOR  STIMSON  BROOKS 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1921 


Copyright,  1921,  by 
THE   CENTURY   Co. 


TO 

THE  PRINCESS  AMEDEE  DE  BROGLIE 

WHO 

HAS  SEVERAL  TIMES  TRODDEN 

THE  SACRED  SOIL  OF  THE  BRAHMANS 

I  OFFER,  VERY  RESPECTFULLY, 

THIS  "MYSTERIOUS  INDIA" 

IN  GRATITUDE 

FOR  THE  KINDLY  FRIENDSHIP 
WITH  WHICH  SHE  HONORS  ME 


CONTENTS 
PART  I 

CHAPTER  FAGK 

PREFACE xiii 

I    THE  PARSEES  AND  THE  TOWERS  OF  SILENCE  3 

II     IN  THE  BOWELS  OF  ELLORA n 

III  AMBER  THE  DEAD  AND  ROSE-COLORED  JEYPORE  19 

IV  HINDU  WIVES  AND  WIDOWS 30 

PART  II 

V    THERE  ARE  RAJAHS  AND  RAJAHS      ..     .     .  47 

VI    AN  ASIATIC  MAECENAS 55 

VII    AN  INDIAN  DURBAR 62 

VIII     BETROTHAL  UNDER  THE  LAW  OF  MANU    .     -.  74 

IX    THE  SIKH  SEHRABANDI .  85 

X    THE  WEDDING  AT  KAPURTHALA    ....  91 

PART  III 

XI    TOWARDS  THE  AFGHAN  FRONTIER  ....  103 

XII     ON  THE  ROCK  OF  GWALIOR 115 

XIII  Two  MONGOLIAN  CAPITALS 122 

XIV  HOLY  MUTTRA 139 

XV     INDIA  ONCE  REVOLTED  HERE 147 

XVI     BRAHMANS  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  GANGES   .  156 

XVII     BENARES  AND  ITS  FAKIRS 167 

XVIII     DAWN  ON  THE  HIMALAYA       .....  179 


vin 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XIX 

XX 

XXI 

XXII 

XXIII 

XXIV 


PART  IV 

PAGE 

HYDERABAD  AND  GOLCONDA 193 

To  THE  MEMORY  OF  DUPLEIX     ....  206 

THE  TEMPLES  OF  COROMANDEL    .     .     .     .  218 

THE  HORRIFYING  COAST  OF  MALABAR    .     .  226 

MADURA  THE  MYSTERIOUS 240 

DEAD  HINDU   CITIES 252 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

A  Tiger  Hunt  Under  the  Great  Moguls     .          Frontispiece 


FACE 


Bombay — The   Cotton   Market   from  Where  Hundreds 
of  Thousands  of  Bales  of  This  Valuable  Vegetable  Fiber 

Are  Shipped  to  Europe 16 

A  Parade  of  Sikh  Infantry 16 

Sikh  Cavalry 17 

An   Informal   Reception  at  the  Court  of  Jeypore;  the 
Grandson  of  the  Maharajah  and  the  Author  in  the 

Center 17 

A  Bayadere  Dance 32 

Snake  and  Scorpion  Charmers 32 

Threshing  Out  Earth-Nuts 33 

Grinding  Earth-Nuts  to  Extract  Oil 33 

H.  H.  Jagatjit  Singh,  Maharajah  of  Kapurthala (Punjab)  48 
H.   H.   Princess  Brindahmati  of  Jubbal,  Who  by  Her 

Marriage   Became  Crown  Princess  of  Kapurthala     .  49 

The  Gateway  to  the  Palace  of  Kapurthala     ....  64 

A  Brahmanic  Religious  Wedding 64 

Jeypore — The  Palace  of  the  Winds 65 

Benares — The  Bath  of  the  Widows 65 

The  "Announcer"  of  a  Wedding 96 

The  Author  on  His  Hunting  Elephant 96 

Elephants  in  the  Flesh  and  Elephants  of  Stone    ...  97 

The  Great  Temple  of  Angkor- Vat 97 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


Amritsar — The  Temple  of  Gold  and  the  Lake  of  Im- 
mortality .      » 112 

Amritsar — A  Street  Scene 112 

The  Rock  and  the  Plain  of  Gwalior 113 

The  Terraces  at  Futtehpore  Sikri,  Near  Agra     .      .      .  113 

Agra — The  Mausoleum  of  the  Taj -Mahal      .     .      .      .  128 

Agra — The  Sultana's  Piscina    .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .  129 

Madras — An  Insurgent  Hindu  Being  Taken  to  Prison  129 

Delhi — The  Diwanikhas  of  the  Great  Moguls    .      .      .  144 
Delhi — The  First  Imperial  Enclosure  and  the  Gate  of 

Lahore 144 

Muttra — Bathing  on  the  Banks  of  the  Djumna    .      .      .  145 

Muttra — The  Market-Place 145 

Ruins  of  the  Lucknow  Mutiny 160 

The  Palace  at  Lucknow 160 

Benares — A  Low-Caste  Cremation 161 

A  Morning  at  Benares 161 

A  Palace  on  the  Banks  of  the  Ganges 1 76 

Brahmanic  Funerals  on  the  Banks  of  the  Ganges;  to  the 

Left,  a  Corpse  in  Its  Shroud 176 

Benares — The  Pilgrim's  Ablutions 177 

Benares — A  High-Caste  Cremation 177 

Banga-Baba,  the  Ascetic,  in  His  Watch-Tower,  Turning 

His  Back  to  the  Ganges 184 

A  Fanatic  of  the  Sect  of  Siva,  Proceeding  on  a  Pilgrim- 
age by  Rolling 184 

Darjeeling    (Himalaya) — A   Thibetan   Bonze  and   His 

Family 185 

Cawnpore — Memorial  of  the  Massacre  in  1857     .      .      .  185 

A  Street  in  Hyderabad 196 

Ruins  at  Golconda • 196 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS  xi 

FACING 
PAGE 

H.  H.  Prince  Aga-Khan,  Religious  and  Political  Head 

of  the  Mussulmans  of  India 197 

The  Monkeys  of  Muttra 204 

A  Sacred  Elephant  at  the  Threshold  of  a  Temple  .  .  204 

Tanjore — The  Great  Pagoda  of  the  Black  Bull  .  .  205 

Tanjore — The  Temple  of  Sobramanye 205 

Madura — The  Palace  of  the  Ancient  Rajah  Who  Was 

Dispossessed 216 

The  Sacred  Rock  of  Trichinopoly 216 

Mongolian  and  Aryan  Types 217 

A  Sanyaski  Fakir  on  a  Journey  (in  the  Center)  .  .  217 

The  Pagoda  of  Jambukeswar,  near  Trichinopoly  .  .  240 
The  Environs  of  Madura — The  Pagoda  and  Pond  of 

Teppa-Kulam 240 

The  Car  of  the  Juggernaut 241 

Srirangan — Entrance  to  the  Temple 241 

Teppa-Kulam — The  Temple  and  Statuettes  of  Kali  the 

Slayer 256 

Madura — The  Great  Pagoda 256 

Boroboedoer  (Java) — The  Great  Temple  Dedicated  to 

Buddha 257 

Giant  Heads  of  Buddha  of  the  City  of  Angor-Thom  .  257 


PREFACE 

FLAUBERT  could  not  be  consoled  for  having  to 
die  without  seeing  Benares.  The  genial  author  of 
Salammbo,  the  immortal  thinker  of  The  Tempta- 
tion of  Saint  Anthony,  never  in  the  flesh  witnessed 
those  long  lines  of  pilgrims,  performing  their 
morning  ablutions  on  the  banks  of  the  Ganges,  in 
the  glory  of  the  radiant  East. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  in  the  days  when 
Madame  Bovary  gave  herself  up  to  her  romantic 
dreams,  in  the  days  when  that  learned  and  sonorous 
idiot,  Homais,  made  the  bottles  in  his  apothecary's 
laboratory  tremble  under  the  rush  of  his  passion- 
ate Voltairian  aphorisms,  in  those  days  a  journey 
to  India  constituted  neither  more  nor  less  than  a 
veritable  expedition  by  land  and  sea.  First  of  all, 
one  had  to  hoist  oneself  painfully  into  the  stage 
from  Rouen  to  Paris,  then  from  the  stage  for  Paris 
into  the  stage  for  Lyons,  passing  through  Lieusaint, 
of  sinister  and  melodramatic  memory.  By  one 
transfer  after  another,  one  arrived,  on  a  fine  morn- 
ing, at  Marseilles,  bruised,  exhausted,  shattered 
by  the  successive  shakings  of  the  diligences  and  the 


xiv  PREFACE 

uncomfortable  hospitality  of  the  inns.  After  that 
one  had  to  embark  from  Marseilles  for  Gibraltar 
and  set  sail  for  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  for  Bour- 
bon Island,  Port  Louis  and  the  Isle  de  France,  and 
finally  for  Point  de  Galle,  at  that  time  the  capital 
of  Ceylon — in  all,  three  long  months  of  navigation 
in  the  Mediterranean,  around  Africa  and  across  the 
Indian  Ocean.  Certainly  enough  to  discourage 
Madame  Bovary,  if  she  was  subject  to  seasickness! 

Today  the  "Cote  d'Azur"  express  deposits  you 
in  one  night  on  the  quays  of  La  Joliette  whence,  the 
next  morning,  a  long  steamer  carries  you  off,  to  the 
strains  of  music,  toward  Egypt,  once  penetrated  by 
"the  Great  Frenchman."  In  five  days  you  reach 
Port  Said;  five  more  take  you  from  Suez  to 
Djibouti  or  to  Aden;  and  a  final  five  suffice  for  you 
to  gain  the  harbor  of  Bombay.  From  this  point 
India  today  lies  open  to  the  super-tourist  as  does 
Java,  Indo-China  or  New  Zealand.  The  double 
screws  and  the  engines  of  our  steamships  have 
made  short  work  of  distance  and  of  oceans.  It  has 
become  as  easy  to  go  to  India  as  to  visit  the  Tyrol 
or  Andalusia.  For  this  you  may  take  the  word  of 
the  author,  who  has  twice  found  it  so  by  personal 
experience. 

Among  all  the  exotic  countries  which  exercise 
a  magnetic  attraction  upon  our  imagination,  India 


PREFACE  xv 

is  perhaps  the  one  which  most  powerfully  stirs  the 
curiosity  of  the  reader,  the  artist,  the  fireside 
traveler.  It  is  all  very  well  to  talk  of  Egypt, 
China,  Palestine,  Japan.  But  India,  what  a  magic 
word!  And  how  many  times  I  have  heard  charnv 
ing  women  murmur  to  me  in  a  faraway,  almost 
ecstatic  voice,  with  that  little  shiver  which  is  the 
forerunner  of  mysterious  things:  "Ah!  how  I  envy 
you.  .  .  .  To  go  to  India,  that  would  be  my 
dream!" 

And  thereupon,  in  the  blue  or  black,  gray  or 
green  eyes  of  my  interlocutor,  as  in  the  eyes  of  the 
Claire  Lenoir  of  Villiers  de  1'Isle-Adam,  I  would 
see  rows  of  imaginary  pagodas  rise  and  take  shape, 
under  the  silent  caress  of  the  great  twisted  palm- 
trees.  I  would  seem  to  see  in  these  feminine,  in 
these  creative  eyes  the  tinkling  defile  of  the  ele- 
phants, decked  with  their  scarlet  trappings  and 
their  silver  howdahs,  the  procession  of  white- 
bearded  priests,  the  torch-bearers,  the  musicians, 
the  dancing  girls,  their  lids  blackened  with  kohl, 
preceding  the  horde  of  fakirs  with  their  gestures 
as  of  men  possessed  or  mad.  Yes,  in  the  half -closed 
eyes  of  this  woman  of  Paris  I  would  distinguish  it 
all  clearly,  this  apparition  of  India  the  marvelous, 
the  inviolate,  unrolling  in  the  moonlight  the  linked 
chain  of  its  turbulent,  sacred  procession,  under  the 


xvi  PREFACE 

hard,  cruel  stare  of  its  grimacing  idols  with  their 
many  hands  and  feet,  their  terrifying  smiles  of  love, 
grief  or  death! 

The  truth  is,  there  smolders,  unavowed,  in  all 
of  us,  the  latent  fire  of  mystery.  The  enigmatic, 
everything  that  lies  outside  our  everyday  experi- 
ence, has  for  us  an  invincible  attraction,  a  marked 
flavor — shall  I  say  an  irritating  flavor? — like  that 
of  those  peppery,  burning  curries  which  India  also 
reveals  to  us.  Our  childhood,  our  early  youth  is 
nourished  on  tales — alas!  so  often  fantastic — of 
Jacolliot,  Jules  Verne  and  their  kind.  Our  imagi- 
nation as  young  people,  then  as  grown  people,  is 
delighted  and  charmed  by  the  accurate,  poetical 
and  true  descriptions  of  Louis  Rousselet,  Chevril- 
lon,  Pierre  Loti,  Jules  Bois  and  Brieux.  The  word 
"rajah"  brings  to  our  ears  the  tinkling  of  gold  and 
gems,  a  remnant  of  the  vanished  omnipotence  of 
the  Grand  Moguls,  the  faraway  echo  of  the 
trumpets  of  Golconda  the  Magnificent,  town  of 
dreams  and  city  of  diamonds.  Does  someone  men- 
tion fakirs  in  our  presence?  Immediately  we  call 
up,  with  the  help  of  our  imagination,  a  panorama 
of  pictured  thoughts.  On  the  threshold  of  an  old, 
ruined  temple,  invaded  by  the  jungle,  stands  a  man 
with  burning  eyes,  turbaned,  half  naked,  fright- 
fully emaciated.  His  gaze  seems  lost  in  the  Be- 


PREFACE  xvii 

yond.  He  is  externalizing  himself,  murmuring 
confused,  indistinct,  broken  words.  .  .  .  And  sud- 
denly the  miraculous  power  of  his  obstinate  will 
makes  the  grain  sprout,  bursting  the  double  sheath 
of  its  seed-leaf  with  the  running  sap  and  the  sun- 
ward urge  of  its  leaves,  which  grow  and  turn  green 
in  an  instant.  Let  us  confess  it;  the  contrast  of 
this  power  and  this  poverty  in  the  fakir  delights  our 
spirit  with  its  appetite  for  paradox.  In  the  same 
way  we  are  charmed  by  the  juxtaposition,  the  con- 
tact, in  spite  of  the  abyss  of  the  castes,  of  the 
dazzling  prince  and  the  abject  pariah.  Extremes 
meet  in  India,  the  still  recent  memory  of  the  Dur- 
bar, for  example,  as  oppressive  as  it  was  grandiose, 
and  the  frightful  vision  of  famines  past  and  to 
come. 

But  we  must  be  on  our  guard  against  these 
frights  of  fireside  fancy,  we  must  beware  of  this 
general  tendency,  so  natural  to  our  Latin  tempera- 
ment, to  enlarge  and  exaggerate  everything,  to  see 
everything  poetically  through  the  prism  of  our 
exuberant  optimism!  ...  By  manufacturing  for 
ourselves  too  far  in  advance  an  artificial  and 
fictitious  India,  we  risk  losing  our  dearest  illusions, 
one  by  one,  before  the  reality  of  facts.  Without 
doubt,  India  is  beautiful,  grand,  moving.  Yet  I 
dare  to  affirm  that  far  more  than  anything  else  it  is 


xviii  PREFACE 

interesting.  "Interesting"  is,  indeed,  the  word,  that 
seems  to  me  most  suited  to  this  immense  reservoir 
of  thinking  humanity.  The  adjective  "beautiful" 
suits  her  only  partially,  in  certain  regions  scattered 
over  the  map,  and  of  which  the  North,  the  Hima- 
laya especially,  is  the  chief  crown.  In  other  parts 
there  is  nothing  but  melancholy  plains,  arid  deserts, 
brackish  and  dried-up  pools.  The  jungle  itself,  so 
rich  and  luxuriant  in  the  northern  parts  of  the  Em- 
pire, is  often  nothing  but  tall  and  sunbaked  under- 
brush, of  which  the  tropical  vegetation  consists 
principally  of  aloes  and  cacti. 

One  of  the  most  fascinating  of  our  fashionable 
women,  who  had  just  returned  from  India,  spoke 
to  me  only  the  other  day  of  her  disenchantment  and 
her  annoyances. 

"Ah,  Monsieur,"  she  exclaimed,  "what  a  disillu- 
sion I  have  just  experienced !  I  who  was  expecting 
to  go  from  fairyland  to  fairyland!  Not  a  single 
tiger  did  I  see  in  the  jungle,  and  very  few  ele- 
phants in  the  towns;  nowadays  the  rajahs  go  about 
in  aeroplanes  and  automobiles!  As  for  the  baya- 
deres, I  could  make  nothing  out  of  their  dances; 
they  bored  me  to  death.  And  then  what  a  lack 
of  comfort  everywhere,  what  detestable  food !  In 
the  South,  no  hotels;  one  is  obliged  to  sleep  in  the 
railway  stations.  If  one  only  could  sleep!  But  it 


PREFACE  xix 

is  impossible:  the  heat,  the  noise,  the  mosquitoes! 
.  .  .  Ahl  How  my  husband  and  I  regretted  the 
Nile  boats  and  the  great  Egyptian  palaces!" 

Do  not  smile;  this  arraignment,  however  super- 
ficial it  may  appear  to  you,  is  not  absolutely  with- 
out foundation.  A  journey  in  India,  even  in  our 
day  of  luxury  and  progress,  is  still  a  laborious  mat- 
ter, fatiguing  and  sometimes  even  disagreeable. 
But  how  enthralling  for  those  who  are  willing  to 
look  for  other  things  than  tigers,  elephants,  dan- 
cing girls  and  the  gipsy  orchestras  at  afternoon  tea. 

India! 

It  is  an  open  book,  in  which  each — just  as  with 
the  "Imitation" — may  chance  upon  what  fits  his 
own  case.  To  the  philosopher  it  opens  an  un- 
limited field  of  new  horizons,  thoughts,  concepts, 
from  which  he  can  glean  a  thousand  lessons  in 
ethics  or  in  pure  metaphysics.  To  the  ethnog- 
rapher, to  the  writer,  India  appears  as  a  cradle  of 
humanity  from  which  almost  all  the  European  and 
Asiatic  races  have  sprung,  from  which  we  ourselves 
come,  and  whose  history,  religion  and  customs 
stretch  back  age  beyond  age.  The  scientist,  the 
physician  will  gather  evidence  there  about  the 
supreme  ills  of  our  poor  flesh;  the  theosophist  and 
the  spiritualist  will  study  there  from  the  life  the 
most  extraordinary  phenomena  of  hypnotism  and 


xx  PREFACE 

mediumistic  possession;  the  artist  will  be  en- 
raptured by  the  strength  or  the  delicacy  of  the  high 
and  low  reliefs,  the  architectural  designs,  the 
exquisiteness  of  the  traceries,  the  detail  of  the  old 
miniatures.  .  .  .  And  all,  after  having  admired 
this  India  of  the  North,  which  has  sprung  from  the 
Koran,  Moslem  with  the  exception  of  Jeypore, 
Gwalior  and  Benares, — all  will  wish  to  delve  more 
deeply  still  into  Brahmanism,  by  visiting  that 
prodigious,  that  often  terrifying  Tamil  India  of 
the  South :  the  coasts  of  Malabar  and  Coromandel. 

May  this  work — brought  together  from  notes 
taken  in  the  course  of  two  recent  trips  and  having 
the  further  advantage  that  it  is  suitable  to  be  placed 
in  any  hands — help  to  lift  a  corner  of  the  curtain 
that  still  hides  from  our  profane  eyes  the  secret  of 
the  rajahs,  the  Brahmans  and  the  fakirs! 

But  is  not  this  to  lay  one's  hand  on  the  veil  of 
Tanit? 

R.  C, 


PARTI 


MYSTERIOUS   INDIA 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  PARSEES  AND  THE  TOWERS  OF  SILENCE 

The  disciples  of  Zarathustra — The  Armenians  of  India — A 
chapter  on  hats — In  the  Parsee  quarter — Two  funeral  pro- 
cessions— A  trip  to  the  Towers  of  Silence — The  vultures' 
quarry. 

HE  chief  curiosity  of  Bombay,  that 
which  first  catches  one's  eye  as  one 
steps  off  the  steamer,  is  the  sight  of 
these  grave  worthies,  with  their 
skins  of  the  color  of  brown  bread, 
wearing  spectacles,  wearing  strange 
head-dresses,  half-European,  half-Asiatic,  who 
seem  a  sort  of  necessary  link  between  the  East  and 
the  West. 

These  Parsees — numbering  today,  in  Bombay 
alone,  upwards  of  fifty  thousand — constitute,  it 
must  be  recognized  a  veritable  elite.  Marvelous- 

3 


4  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

ly  gifted  as  regards  practical  affairs,  born  business 
men,  they  have  taken  charge  for  twelve  hundred 
years,  that  is  to  say  since  their  immigration  from 
Persia,  not  only  of  all  the  great  commercial  enter- 
prises, but  also  of  all  the  enviable  posts,  of  all  the 
most  sought  after  situations  in  the  Administration. 
They  are  the  Armenians  of  India.  I  may  add  that 
they  profess  for  France,  its  generous  ideas  and  its 
glories,  the  most  touching  filial  respect.  Most  of 
them — especially  the  rich — learn  French,  speak  it 
and  teach  it  with  real  love.  Not  merely  does  the 
Parsee  chancellor  of  our  consulate,  M.  Jamsetjee 
Sorabjee  Settna,  although  he  has  never  set  foot  in 
France,  speak  with  the  correctness  of  word  and 
phrase  of  a  graduate  of  the  Sorbonne,  but  the  gov- 
ernment of  the  Republic,  touched  by  so  much  good 
will  and  such  perseverance,  has  granted  to  this 
zealous  servitor  the  favor  of  the  commission  of  an 
officer  of  the  Academy.  And  you  should  see  with 
what  pride  that  worthy  man  wears,  over  his  white 
jacket,  both  the  violet  ribbon  .  .  .  and  the  silver 
palms  I 

The  bigotry  of  the  castes — to  which  I  shall  have 
occasion  to  return  in  the  course  of  these  essays  on 
India — the  bigotry  of  the  castes  does  not  exist 
among  the  disciples  of  Zarathustra,  the  sun-wor- 
shipers, except  in  a  quite  embryonic  state. 


TOWERS  OF  SILENCE  5 

Actually  they  are  divided  into  two  classes:  the 
Irani,  the  civilized  Parsees,  and  the  Schenchai,  the 
barbarous  Parsees.  The  former  may  be  recog- 
nized by  their  striking  head-dresses,  either  the 
topy,  a  melon-shaped  construction  of  gray  felt  with 
rolled  borders,  or  the  pagri,  a  bishop's  miter  of 
blue  foulard  with  small  white  dots,  stiffened  with 
a  sort  of  gum  or  varnish.  Add  to  the  strangeness 
of  these  head-dresses  the  habit  of  wearing  gold  eye- 
glasses or  spectacles,  which  give  them  an  odd 
suggestion  of  Japanese  doctors.  ...  As  for  the 
Schenchai,  they  are  generally  poor  devils  in  rags, 
whose  heads  are  covered  with  a  turban  that  has 
nothing  original  about  it. 

"A  difference  in  headgear,  that's  all  I"  I  was 
smilingly  assured  by  a  rich  Parsee  of  the  upper 
class,  who  was  thoroughly  grounded  in  all  matters 
European  and  Asiatic  and  a  profound  philosopher 
in  his  leisure  hours.  "Our  religious  equality  is  in 
no  way  affected  by  it." 

"Even  in  the  interior  of  your  temples?"  I  sug- 
gested; "even  on  the  threshold  of  death?" 

"Even  in  the  interior  of  our  temples!  Even  on 
the  threshold  of  death  I"  he  repeated  with  inde- 
scribable firmness. 

And  immediately  after,  as  if  to  make  himself 
clear,  "I  cannot  let  you  enter  any  of  the  seven 


6  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

sanctuaries  of  our  religion  in  Bombay.  That  is 
forbidden  me,  on  pain  of  the  severest  penalties, 
and  besides,  my  conscience,  as  a  professing  Parsee, 
would  not  allow  me  to  do  so.  I  regret  it,  for  then 
you  would  be  able  to  judge  of  the  unity  of  our 
brothers  in  prayer.  But  if  you  would  like  to  see 
how  we  die,  rich  or  poor,  noble  or  workman,  come 
to  my  house  early  tomorrow  morning.  I  will  ar- 
range it  so  that  you  can  be  present  at  two  funerals 
after  our  rite,  which  we  shall  accompany  to  the 
wickets  of  the  Towers  of  Silence  on  Malabar 
Hill.  There  you  can  verify  our  equality  in  death  1 
On  one  condition,  however.  .  .  ." 

"Which  is?" 

"Give  me  your  word  of  honor  to  suppress  my 
name  if  ever  the  fancy  seizes  you  to  write  about 
these  things.  .  .  ." 

"You  have  it." 

And  I  shall  keep  my  promise. 

This  is  what  I  repeat  to  myself  as  I  make  my 
way  to  the  house  of  my  obliging  cicerone  who 
lives  in  Parsia,  the  quarter  of  Bombay  where  dwell 
his  co-religionists,  in  great  white  or  yellow  houses, 
four  or  five  stories  high.  Together  we  now  mount 
a  crowded  street  dominated  by  the  pagri,  the  na- 
tional miter  of  varnished  foulard.  What  a  lot  of 


TOWERS  OF  SILENCE  7 

gold  spectacles!  Are  far-sightedness  and  near- 
sightedness  the  fashion  here? 

But  look,  at  the  entrance  of  a  prosperous  house, 
and  a  little  further  on,  near  the  door  of  a  miserable, 
broken-down  dwelling,  there,  on  one  side  and  an- 
other, is  quite  a  large  gathering  of  people,  grave, 
bearded  men,  all  clad  in  white,  silent,  seated  on 
old  wooden  benches  that  encumber  the  road. 

"These  are  the  relations  and  friends  of  the  two 
dead  men,"  my  guide  whispers  in  my  ear.  "They 
alone  will  presently  accompany  the  body.  The 
parents  and  wives  will  remain  in  the  home  of  the 
dead,  drowned  in  tears,  sobs  and  prayers.  As  for 
the  white  robes  that  seem  to  attract  your  attention, 
it  is  the  customary  mourning  worn  by  our  men. 
The  women  wear  black,  as  you  do  in  Europe." 

Slowly  the  first  procession  sets  out — a  white  lit- 
ter, hermetically  sealed,  carried  on  the  shoulders 
of  eight  white-gloved  bearers,  while  those  who  are 
to  walk  fall  in  line  behind  it,  their  hands  clasped 
on  their  foreheads,  with  the  most  edifying  signs 
of  compassion.  Inwardly  I  am  amazed  at  the 
singular  mixture  of  idealism  and  superstition  in 
the  members  of  this  sect,  who  have  a  horoscope 
cast  at  their  birth,  who  abstain  from  smoking,  for 
fear  of  profaning  the  fire,  and  who,  in  order  to 
purify  themselves,  drink  the  urine  of  a  bull  mixed 


8  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

with  water  that  has  been  drawn  by  moonlight. 
Now  we  are  climbing  up  the  slope  of  Malabar 
Hill,  the  adorable  little  rise  of  palms  that  crowns 
the  peninsula  of  Bombay,  strewn  with  palaces  and 
gay  villas  among  clumps  of  acacias  and  cocoanut, 
banana  and  mimosa  trees.  Further  on,  emerging 
from  the  dense  tropical  foliage,  there  are  five  mas- 
sive, gray  towers,  five  smooth,  round  turrets,  each 
one  pierced  by  a  single  opening,  a  black,  grilled 
gate,  beneath  which,  by  stooping,  two  men  can 
enter  from  the  front. 

The  Towers  of  Silence,  the  horrible  and  mag- 
nificent cemetery  of  the  Parseesl  .  .  .  Why  must 
this  sunny,  dreamy  corner,  this  flowery  paradise, 
this  perfumed  air,  this  riot  of  colors  conceal  the 
fearful  spectacle  of  this  quarry-to-be  and  the  place 
of  decay? 

The  bearers  of  the  white  litter  have  entered  a 
shady  lane  which  leads  to  one  of  the  five  towers. 
Above  their  heads  wheel  birds  of  prey,  great  and 
small,  eagles,  kites  and  buzzards,  which  in  a  few 
minutes  will  seize  with  their  gray  beaks  the  leav- 
ings of  the  vultures'  feast. 

The  vultures!  I  can  distinguish  them  now  on 
their  funereal  perch.  At  the  sound  of  steps  they 
stretch  out  their  skinny  necks;  bending  greedily 
towards  the  approaching  prey,  they  gobble  joy- 


TOWERS  OF  SILENCE  9 

cmsly  on  the  top  of  the  tower  and  swing  their  eager, 
gluttonous  heads  heavily  from  left  to  right. 

But  a  hand  is  placed  on  my  shoulder. 

"We  must  stop  here.  You  can  go  no  further. 
Look;  from  this  little  knoll  you  can  see  the  black 
wicket  open  and  the  vultures  fling  themselves  into 
the  interior  to  accomplish  the  work  of  destruction 
prescribed  by  the  Zend-Avesta." 


Ah,  what  a  sinister  vision!  That  clicking  lock, 
that  half-open  wicket,  those  bearers  bending  down 
and  slipping  in,  carrying  a  long,  white  object.  .  .  . 
A  few  minutes.  .  .  .  Then  a  second  click.  The 
funereal  men  have  accomplished  their  task,  they 
are  returning  among  the  living.  And  now  there 
is  a  furious  commotion  which  I  cannot  see  but 
which  I  hear:  a  battle  of  hooked  beaks,  a  concert 
of  harsh,  discordant  cries. 

"Come,"  says  the  guide,  "in  twenty  minutes  it 
will  all  be  over.  Besides,  what  is  the  use  of  re- 
maining? You  could  not  understand.  Our  re- 
ligion, you  see,  forbids  us  to  destroy  our  dead  by 
Water,  Earth  or  Fire — that  is,  to  soil  the  three 
elements  by  the  impure  contact  of  our  corpses. 
So  we  leave  it  to  the  vultures,  to  the  sun,  to  the 


io  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

waters  of  heaven  to  destroy  our  Vestments  of  flesh 
and  bone7  and  return  them  to  the  earth." 

"So  you,  who  are  speaking  to  me  at  this  moment, 
in  such  choice  language,  with  so  clear  an  intelli- 
gence, you,  an  Irani  of  the  upper  class,  almost  or 
better  than  a  European,  you  will  be  torn,  slashed 
shred  from  shred  by  these  hideous  creatures?" 

"I  as  well  as  the  others.  ...  As  well  as  this 
second  one  whose  procession  is  approaching.  .  .  . 
As  well  as  those  that  will  come  here  tomorrow  and 
the  day  after.  Thus  teaches  Zarathustra.  And  be- 
sides, do  you  not  think  that,  as  between  the  worms 
of  the  tomb  and  the  vultures  of  the  open  air,  it  is 
all  one  in  the  end?" 

And  beneath  the  sapphire  sky  of  India,  under 
these  vivid,  luxuriant  palms,  surrounded  by  these 
rare  flowers  and  these  penetrating  perfumes,  it 
seems  to  me  that  this  gold-bespectacled  Parsee  has 
just  paraphrased,  without  knowing  it,  the  great 
thought  of  Schopenhauer,  summing  up  the  vicious 
circle  of  the  human  race : 

"Death  is  the  Reservoir  of  Life;  Life  is  the 
Reservoir  of  Death." 


CHAPTER  II 


IN  THE  BOWELS  OF  ELLORA 

Across  desert  India — The  discomfort  of  Indian  inns— "Give 
the  chick  back  to  its  mother !" — An  improvised  guide — In 
the  heart  of  the  mysterious  caverns — Monolith  buildings 
with  neither  joint  nor  cement — The  caves  of  the  bats. 

|LLORA,  the  place  of  the  Hindu 
catacombs!  A  sense  of  grandeur 
and  terror  grips  you  from  the  mo- 
ment you  enter  these  somber  cav- 
erns, from  the  mouths  of  which 
escape  whiffs  of  dank  air,  the  sep- 
ulchers  of  gods  and  goddesses,  infinitely  colder 
and  more  austere  than,  for  example,  the  cheerful 
Egyptian  vaults  of  Sakkarah. 

It  is  no  easy  matter  to  reach  them,  and  far  from 
comfortable  to  make  even  a  short  stay  in  their 
neighborhood.  You  must  first  cross  immense, 
desert  plains,  dried-up,  scorched,  cracked,  almost 
in  the  center  of  India,  where  the  vegetation  con- 
sists principally  of  aloes,  cacti,  paw-paws,  man- 
goes, tamarinds,  acacias  and  banana  trees — a  stony, 


12  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

yellowed  landscape  that  savors  of  autumn.  Fare- 
well, great  palms  of  Bombay!  Here  and  there 
are  crumbling  ruins,  the  names  of  towns  that  sound 
like  the  click  of  a  sword:  Aurengabad,  Daulata- 
bad,  famous  cities  over  which  the  Grand  Moguls 
once  extended  their  sway.  Today,  they  are  nothing 
but  heaps  of  ruins  crowned  with  underbrush.  A 
few  poor  wretches  inhabit  these  solitudes,  sharing 
them  with  the  beasts  of  the  jungle. 

I  have  spoken  of  all  the  discomfort  of  such  an 
expedition  and  I  return  to  it  with  the  charitable 
hope  of  helping  others  to  avoid  the  little  annoy- 
ances that  befell  me.  From  Daulatabad,  the  rail- 
way station  at  which  one  alights,  to  Ellora  there 
is  no  other  means  of  transportation  than  a  miser- 
able wagon,  drawn  by  wretched  horses  over  an 
execrable  road.  Come!  It  is  written!  I  shall 
make  half  the  trip  on  foot.  This  gives  me  the  ap- 
petite of  an  ogre  when,  having  passed  Rozas,  the 
Mohammedan  settlement,  I  at  last,  with  what  de- 
light, catch  sight  of  the  little  wayside  inn,  pom- 
pously decorated  with  the  name  "Traveler's  Bun- 
galow." Horrors!  I  am  to  sleep  in  a  room  that  is 
not  a  room ;  no  tooth-mug,  only  a  chipped  cup ;  the 
only  linen  a  single  rumpled  towel  that  has  un- 
doubtedly already  served  other  unfortunates  like 
myself.  Really,  my  desire  to  visit  these  grottoes 


IN  THE  BOWELS  OF  ELLORA          13 

must  be  desperate  indeed  for  me  to  sit  down  in  that 
limping  rocking-chair  which  is  enough  to  make  me 
seasick,  a  feeling  I  have  never  known  before.  And 
this  dinner!  No  bread,  nothing  but  rice,  a  box 
of  old,  rancid  sardines  imported  from  Portugal 
put  up  in  cocoanut  oil  from  Goa ;  tea  that  smells 
like  the  straw  of  a  stable  .  .  .  and  other  infamies 
of  the  same  stamp.  The  coolie,  a  sort  of  Handy 
Andy,  is  lost  in  excuses,  bobbing  his  head  after  the 
Indian  fashion.  My  grimaces  have  made  an  im- 
pression on  him;  he  will  go  and  prepare  something. 
It  is  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening.  I  am  drop- 
ping of  fatigue  and  hunger.  In  twenty  minutes, 
at  the  latest,  I  must  swallow  my  rice  and  sardines 
while  I  try  to  think  of  something  else — The  Dis- 
course on  Method,  for  example,  or  Plato's  Ban- 
quet (what  irony,  that  banquet  1),  in  short,  of  some 
very  serious,  grave  or  philosophical  subject,  in 
order  to  forget  my  plight.  I  have  often  used  this 
method :  believe  me,  it  is  the  best  device  for  intro- 
ducing stoically  into  one's  stomach  the  nondescript 
food  of  certain  exotic  countries.  Handy  Andy  re- 
turns, triumphantly  bearing  in  his  hands  a  live 
chick  which  would  have  grown  into  a  fowl  if  Fate 
had  not  predestined  him  to  serve  as  my  principal 
dish.  I  utter  a  cry  of  anguish,  both  for  the  little 
beast  which  looks  at  me  with  its  round,  imploring 


i4  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

eyes,  and  for  my  stomach,  which  refuses  to  accept 
a  bird  that  may  still  be  agitated  by  its  last  agonies. 
I  know  their  method  of  preparing  chickens :  they 
boil  them  alive,  then  pluck  them  and  clean  them 
and  bring  them  to  you  with  no  other  seasoning 
than  a  handful  of  salt. 

"Djao!    Djaof    Take  it  away!" 

And  he  goes  off,  his  head  hanging,  his  rejected 
offering  in  his  hand. 

In  India  I  have  killed  many  mosquitoes  perhaps, 
and  even,  to  be  frank,  plenty  of  other  parasites — 
more  indiscreet.  At  least  I  have  restored  a  chick 
to  its  mother. 

My  real  feast  is  the  grottoes. 

Innumerable,  diverse,  shadowy  as  the  dark 
Erebus  of  Minos,  ^Eacus  and  Rhadamanthus.  All 
the  cults  of  the  peninsula,  except  that  of  Islam, 
are  represented  here:  Brahmans,  Buddhists  and 
Jains  may  pray  here  in  peace,  hidden  in  the  depths 
of  the  earth.  Grimacing,  sneering  and  gesticulat- 
ing, according  to  their  design,  here  are  Siva,  Vish- 
nu, Kali,  Sombramanye,  Ganesa,  Durga,  Hanu- 
man  and  Karrtikaye ;  here,  also,  the  enigmatic  and 
ironical  smile  of  those  ecstatic  Gautamas,  those 
twenty  or  more  Jain  prophets  who  seem  to  be  hold- 
ing council.  But  heavens!  how  primitive  are  all 


IN  THE  BOWELS  OF  ELLORA          15 

the  arrangements  for  visiting — excuse  me!  explor- 
ing— these  grottoes!  I  can  easily  see  why  the 
stranger,  attracted  by  the  profusion  of  other  things 
to  be  seen  in  India,  deliberately  disdains  this  pil- 
grimage of  art  and  mystery.  No  accredited  guides 
or  obsequious  conductors  to  serve  as  your  Ariadne 
in  this  labyrinth.  What  in  the  world  am  I  to  do 
with  my  boy,  whose  understanding  does  not  equal 
that  of  the  lowest  Brahman?  .  .  .  Fortunately, 
here  comes  a  native  who  is  going  to  rescue  us  from 
our  predicament.  He  salutes  me  gravely  and  cere- 
moniously, squats  down  and  draws  out  of  his  loin- 
cloth two  living  partridges  with  their  legs  tied 
together.  What  does  all  this  mean?  My  good 
native  servant,  Subbaraya,  rubs  his  hands,  laugh- 
ing silently.  Cock-fighting  is  one  of  his  favorite 
amusements.  Yes,  but  this  is  not  what  interests 
me:  it's  a  misdeal!  A  brief  conversation  takes 
place  between  the  two  good  fellows.  A  miracle! 
The  juggler  whisks  away  his  two  partridges 
and  transforms  himself  instantly  into  the  guide  and 
interpreter  of  Ellora.  He  knows  these  ruins  by 
heart,  being  a  native  of  Rozas,  the  neighboring 
hamlet.  Let  us  be  off  then! 

A  few  hundred  meters  and  we  are  at  the  foot  of 
a  circular  plateau  which  rises  above  the  limitless 
plain  like  a  cliff.  In  the  interior  of  this  natural 


16  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

circle  the  hand  of  man  has,  in  the  course  of  cen- 
turies, dug  out  a  series  of  excavations  to  shelter 
the  gods.  There  are  thirty-four  of  them,  certain 
of  which  are  inter-communicating.  I  shall  con- 
tent myself  with  visiting  the  principal  ones,  about 
fifteen  in  all.  Without  a  guide  one  might  be  lost 
or  even  killed.  Into  these  caverns  we  grope  our 
way  by  the  light  of  a  dim  lantern.  First  of  all  we 
come  to  that  pure  marvel  called  Kailas,  a  temple 
entirely  carved  out  of  the  wall  of  massive  granite. 
It  is  an  excavation  by  itself,  on  the  plateau ;  not  a 
single  joint,  not  a  bit  of  masonry  in  the  sculptured 
portals  or  the  towers.  Here  dwells  Kali,  the  Im- 
modest. Next  come  Tin-Tal  and  Do-Tali,  two 
Buddhist  caverns  with  less  ornamentation.  In 
each  of  them  is  enthroned  an  enormous  Buddha, 
with  mustaches  and  piously  vermilioned  by  the 
few  faithful  who,  at  the  same  time,  also  daubed 
over  the  nine  genii  of  Fortune.  As  I  come  out  of 
these  twin  chapels,  piercing  cries  rise  from  the 
plain  that  stretches  at  my  feet.  It  is  some  peasants, 
perched  on  their  platforms,  watching  the  harvest; 
the  poor  devils  are  splitting  their  throats  shouting, 
while  they  wave  sticks  and  pitchforks  to  protect 
their  meager  crops  from  the  voracity  of  the  rats, 
the  birds  and  the  buffaloes.  A  land  of  famine, 


BOMBAY — THE  COTTON  MARKET  FROM  WHERE  HUNDREDS  OF  THOU- 
SANDS OF  BALES  OF  THIS  VALUABLE  VEGETABLE  FIBER  ARE 
SHIPPED  TO  EUROPE 


A  PARADE  OF  SIKH   INFANTRY 


SIKH    CAVALRY 


- 


AN  INFORMAL  RECEPTION  AT  THE  COURT  OF  JEYPORE;  THE 
GRANDSON  OF  THE  MAHARAJAH  AND  THE  AUTHOR  IN  THE 
CENTER 


IN  THE  BOWELS  OF  ELLORA          17 

alas !  in  which  beasts  and  men  dispute  bitterly  for 
the  means  of  existence. 

Further  on  is  the  grotto  of  Vichwakarma,  an- 
other Buddhist  sanctuary  endowed  with  a  semi- 
circular vault  and  pillars  at  the  side  like  a  church. 
In  the  choir,  if  I  may  so  call  it,  a  pointed  niche  con- 
tains a  great  Sakya-Muni,  dreamy  and  benevolent 
(but  why  this  rage  always  to  decorate  his  lips  with 
mustaches !) .  Everywhere  is  the  odor  of  the  tomb ; 
at  moments  I  stifle  in  this  rarefied  air,  polluted 
by  the  excrement  of  the  vampire  bats.  And  I  turn 
only  an  inattentive  ear  to  the  echo  which  I  hear 
resounding  under  this  nave  of  the  catacombs,  re- 
bounding from  wall  to  wall.  Let  us  go  on,  by  all 
means;  I  feel  ill  at  ease.  My  two  companions 
climb  like  goats  over  rubbish  where  I  risk  break- 
ing my  neck  a  hundred  times.  Still  other  excava- 
tions belong  to  the  Buddhist  group,  in  which  the 
sobriety  of  decoration  attests  the  desired  austerity. 
Then  chapels  .  .  .  endless  chapels!  And  always 
under  these  vaults  the  horrid  grinding  of  the 
vampire  bats  I 

At  last  we  are  in  the  Brahman  zone,  the  most 
important  of  all,  which  alone  includes  seventeen 
caves,  all  of  the  eleventh-  century:  Das-Avatar, 
Rameshber,  Nilakantha,  marvelously  sculptured 
temples,  commemorating  the  loves  of  Siva  and 


1 8  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

Parvati;  Durmar-Lena,  which  resembles  the 
grotto  of  Elephanta,  near  Bombay,  and  like  it  pos- 
sesses admirable  stone  lions  at  the  entrance,  black 
linghams,  white  yonis  and  all  the  disconcerting, 
cynical,  triumphant  attributes  of  the  Destroyer. 

There  are  other  Jain  caverns,  adorably  sculp- 
tured, filigreed.  It  all  amazes,  delights,  ravishes 
and  terrifies  one,  but  it  does  not  touch  one.  What 
is  lacking  among  all  these  marvels,  these  prodi- 
gies, these  immense  halls,  these  vertiginous  stair- 
ways, these  unexpected  terraces,  these  openwork 
balconies,  these  headless  bell-towers,  is  the  pres- 
ence and  the  piety  of  the  people,  which  gives 
everything  its  life. 

Underground  cathedrals,  fathomless,  terrifying, 
which  Divinity,  itself,  is  weary  of  inhabiting. 


CHAPTER  III 


AMBER  THE  DEAD  AND  ROSE-COLORED  JEYPORE 

In  Rajputana  —  Disaster  —  A  "Sleeping-city-in-the-wood"  — 
Rose-colored  Jeypore — A  royal  tea — Stonecutters  and 
fakirs — The  miracle  of  the  serpent — The  State  tigers. 

INCE  yesterday  I  have  been  in  Raj- 
putana, now  fertile  and  cultivated, 
now  arid  and  parched,  like  the 
country,  for  example,  bordering  on 
the  bleak  desert  of  Thur.  I  am 
making  my  way  toward  Jeypore, 
where  with  some  delightful  friends  I  hope  to  be 
received  by  the  Maharajah  of  the  independent 
State  of  the  same  name.  A  slight  mishap  awaits 
me;  the  prince  is  seriously  ill  and  to  his  great 
regret  cannot  receive  us.  Nevertheless,  we  shall 
be  his  guests,  graciously  entertained  by  his  brother 
and  his  nephews.  A  herald  clad  in  scarlet  and 
silver  braid  so  informs  us  in  almost  impeccable 
English.  We  shall  be  taken  on  elephant-back  to 
Amber,  the  ancient  capital,  today  a  dead  and 

mysterious   city;    they    are   to    organize,    in   our 

19 


20  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

honor,  a  polo  game  (we  must  not  forget  that  this 
game  is  of  Indian  origin) ;  the  princes  will  offer 
us  refreshments  at  the  palace  of  the  king's  uncle; 
in  short,  they  will  try  to  palliate  the  absence  of 
His  Highness,  who  shows  himself  sincerely  grieved 
by  the  incident.  All  this  is  delivered  to  us  with 
many  smiles,  salutations  and  bobbings  of  the  head 
— in  this  country  one  of  the  greatest  marks  of 
politeness — in  a  soft,  melodious,  whispering  voice. 

Let  us  make  the  best  of  our  misfortune;  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  there  is  so  much  to  see  in  this  Jey- 
pore  and  this  Amber  that  perhaps  we  shall  have 
no  cause  to  regret  the  complete  freedom  of  our 
movements. 

In  the  distance  rise  the  outskirts  of  the  Rose- 
colored  City — so-called  because,  by  royal  decree, 
all  its  buildings,  arcades,  colonnades,  balconies 
and  shutters  must  be  rose-colored,  barely  relieved, 
here  and  there,  by  timid  white  arabesques.  This 
morning,  on  the  Amber  road,  we  are  no  longer 
passing  the  long  lines  of  buffaloes  and  drome- 
daries, their  pack-saddles  laden  with  merchandise, 
which  have  just  been  threading  the  streets  of  Jey- 
pore.  We  are  evidently  in  the  outskirts.  Along 
the  dusty  road,  bordered  by  aloes,  we  now  meet 
peasants  leading  poor  carts  fastened  to  zebus  with 
horns  painted  vermilion,  which  are  drawing  rice, 


ROSE-COLORED  JEYPORE  21 

fruits  and  vegetables  to  town.  At  a  turn  of  the 
road,  some  elephants  file  past,  ranged  in  a  circle 
about  their  mahouts.  Our  royal  vehicles,  no 
doubt!  In  fact,  one  of  the  king's  stewards  hastens 
up  to  us,  to  explain  to  us  the  proper  fashion  of 
making  the  perilous  ascent  of  the  pachyderms. 
The  monstrous  beasts  have  knelt  down  docilely, 
at  the  prick  of  the  steel  on  the  point  of  their  ears ; 
a  little  portable  ladder  slips  from  their  back  to 
the  ground  and  by  means  of  this  we  reach  the  seat 
of  the  howdah.  Almost  directly  in  front  of  us  a 
well-paved  road,  slightly  winding,  bordered  by  a 
parapet,  cuts  at  right  angles,  about  five  hundred 
meters  away,  the  first  wall  of  Amber. 

As  our  elephants  enter  the  gates  of  the  palace, 
our  watches  mark  ten  o'clock.  The  sun  in  all  its 
splendor  illuminates,  transfigures  the  ruins  which 
surround  us  and  throws  a  glitter  over  the  little 
lake  of  Tal-Koutora.  Still  preceded  by  the  stew- 
ard, we  set  out  to  walk  through  the  halls  of  the 
ancient  dwelling  where  the  fancy  of  the  Rajput 
kings  brought  together,  as  regards  decoration, 
every  sort  of  refinement  the  human  mind  could 
conceive.  We  are  dazzled  by  the  phantasmagory 
of  mosaics,  porcelain,  glass  and  gold.  Here  is 
the  Dewankhana,  or  Hall  of  Mirrors,  where  the 
monarch  used  to  give  audiences.  Under  the 


22  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

double  row  of  columns  which  support  a  massive 
entablature  and  along  the  walls  covered  with 
stucco,  runs  a  profusion  of  interlaced  lines,  de- 
signs, birds  and  flowers,  the  details  of  which  recall, 
in  their  infinite  complication,  the  style  of  the 
palaces  of  Jahangir  and  Ranjit-Singh,  at  Lahore, 
— an  architecture  distinctly  Mohammedan  in  its 
origin,  in  which  the  kings  of  Amber  were  never- 
theless careful  to  show  their  profound  faith  in 
Brahmanism.  This  impression  rises  from  the 
frescoes,  for  the  most  part  rather  coarse,  which 
represent  allegorically  this  or  that  religious  myth. 
Now  it  is  the  good  Ganesa,  the  elephant-god,  with 
his  many  arms,  his  trunk  falling  down  in  a  spiral 
over  his  abdomen;  now  Karttikeya,  the  peacock- 
god,  who  presides  over  war;  or  Hanuman,  the 
monkey-god,  the  friend  of  man,  a  hero  celebrated 
in  more  than  one  epic  page  of  the  Rdmdyana.  Next 
we  penetrate  into  the  ancient  harem,  today  acces- 
sible to  profane  Europeans.  The  facets  of  the 
vaultings,  made  of  ancient  mirrors,  now  dim  and 
tarnished,  still  reflect  imperfectly  the  alcoves,  the 
raised  seats,  the  fishpond,  where,  after  the  bath 
and  the  massage,  the  ranees  used  to  rest.  All  these 
apartments,  carefully  shut  in  with  screens  of  white 
marble  open-work,  overhang  like  a  terrace  the  nar- 
row gorge  in  which  lay  the  Capital.  How  many 


ROSE-COLORED  JEYPORE  23 

dramas  of  love  and  jealousy  have  these  walls  of 
lace-work  sheltered  ?  How  many  stifled  sobs,  over- 
whelming despairs,  cries  of  pain  perhaps? 

Today  Amber  still  guards  the  anguish  of  these 
mysteries.  The  dead  city,  swallowed  up  in  ver- 
dure, smothered  under  stifling  vines,  seems  like  a 
city  of  destruction  glimpsed  in  an  opium  dream. 
Ruined  temples,  crumbling  porticoes,  tumble- 
down stairways,  over-grown  gardens,  dried  up 
ponds.  Far  off  the  interminable  wall,  running 
the  length  of  the  valley,  barring  the  pass  with  its 
lofty  pinnacles.  Beyond,  mountains,  and  again 
mountains.  .  .  . 

And  the  desert,  the  yellow,  arid  desert,  which 
seems  as  if  it  could  never  end. 

Why  have  the  present  sovereigns  quitted  this 
poetic  and  majestic  residence  to  build  an  infinity 
of  palaces  on  the  flat  bottom  of  the  plain,  without 
any  extensive  view,  in  the  midst  of  a  great,  almost 
modern  city  (it  dates  from  our  Renaissance)  with 
rectilinear  streets  which  give  it  a  sort  of  vague 
suggestion  of  New  York  or  Alaska? 

This  is  the  question  which  I  quite  naturally  ask 
the  princes  who  offer  us  refreshments  next  day, 
after  a  closely  disputed  polo  match.  They  tell  me 
this  decision  resulted  from  a  caprice  of  Jay  Singh. 


24  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

This  rajah  astronomer,  who  lived  in  the  sixteenth 
century,  had  studied  in  European  books  the  norms 
of  cosmography,  the  theorems  of  the  heavenly  tri- 
angulation,  and  the  chief  hypotheses  concerning 
the  moving  stars.  A  thinker  as  well  as  a  statesman, 
he  had  known  how  to  maintain  an  era  of  prosperity 
in  his  kingdom,  while  at  the  same  time  refreshing 
his  mind  with  analytical  mathematics  and  the  most 
delicate  and  arduous  cosmological  researches. 
From  this  to  having  an  observatory  built  in  his 
capital  was  only  a  step.  He  himself  oversaw  it, 
to  make  sure  that  the  foundations  wer»  exactly 
square  and  level;  then  he  had  gigantic  sextants, 
theodolites  and  compasses  set  up  in  the  plain,  for 
which  he  himself  drew  up  the  designs,  watching 
over  the  building  of  the  finely  cut  foundations,  rec- 
tifying the  drawings,  and  laying  the  first  stone  of 
a  pavilion  designed  to  shelter  his  calculations  and 
his  classified  diagrams.  The  rest,  palace,  gardens, 
rose-colored  city  followed  this  costly  and  charac- 
teristically Hindu  caprice.  The  story  is  told  me 
by  a  nephew  of  the  maharajah,  a  slender  young 
man  with  a  fine,  black  mustache  and  large  jet- 
black  eyes,  the  winner  in  the  polo  match  which  I 
have  just  watched.  I  promise  him  that  I  will  not 
fail  to  visit  the  observatory  of  his  illustrious  ances- 
tor, although  in  mathematics  I  remain  myself  at 


ROSE-COLORED  JEYPORE  25 

the  square  of  the  hypotenuse  of  my  bachelor's 
degree. 

They  offer  us  an  Indian  collation:  rice  cakes, 
cakes  of  pounded  almonds,  sinister  looking  pre- 
serves, disturbing  sweets  which  we  touch  only  with 
the  tips  of  our  teeth.  Suppose  it  were  mandrake 
jelly,  or  preserved  tiger's  mustaches!  Brr!  Such 
things  have  been !  Not  for  the  benefit  of  inoffen- 
sive French  travelers,  but  for  that  of  the  detested 
English  functionaries.  Our  hosts,  it  is  true,  have 
good  faces — were  it  not  for  those  ferociously 
turned-up  Rajput  beards  of  theirs. 

A  charming  attention  is  now  reserved  for  us. 
By  royal  command,  all  the  jewelers  and  goldsmiths 
of  the  city  have  been  requisitioned.  There  they 
are  before  us,  spreading  out  their  baskets,  letting 
the  pearls  of  Ceylon  trickle  through  our  fingers, 
the  rubies  of  Burmah,  the  diamonds  of  Punnah, 
translucent  enamels  over  gold  foundations,  brace- 
lets, rings,  necklaces.  They  are  not  trying  to  force 
our  hands,  as  I  thought  at  first;  it  is  only  a  gracious 
thought  on  the  part  of  our  hosts,  and  a  platonic 
compliance  on  the  part  of  the  jewelers.  Our 
Parisian  women  are  enraptured,  but  do  not  allow 
themselves  to  be  tempted.  As  I  have  since  been 
able  to  convince  myself,  many  of  these  trinkets 
have  been  made  in  response  to  princely  and  other 


26  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

orders;  the  prices  asked  are  usually  higher,  by  at 
least  a  third,  than  those  of  our  rue  de  la  Paix. 
Discreetly,  with  many  smiles,  bows  and  prostra- 
tions, the  merchants  collect  their  jewel  caskets  and 
make  off  with  padded,  feline  steps,  to  give  place 
to  fakirs,  jugglers  and  conjurors. 

Before  our  eyes,  somewhat  blase,  but  deferen- 
tial none  the  less,  mangoes  sprout  and  grow,  eggs 
and  fishes  appear  and  vanish,  mongooses  and  cob- 
ras fight  and  kill  each  other,  till  the  moment  when, 
irritated  by  our  involuntary  apathy,  the  fakir 
juggles  himself  away.  An  inexplicable  and  truly 
curious  trick.  That  worthy  curls  himself  up  in  a 
low  basket,  shaped  like  a  flattened  jar.  Over  him 
a  companion  shuts  down  the  lid,  also  of  wicker- 
work,  invokes  his  "monkey's  skull"  (the  ring  of 
all  the  Robert  Houdins  of  India)  and  pierces  the 
basket  in  all  directions  with  his  sword.  Better 
yet,  he  lifts  up  the  cover,  jumps  with  both  feet 
into  the  basket,  stamps  all  over  it,  picks  it  up  in 
his  arms,  turns  it  upside  down  and  shows  it  to  us. 
Nothing  1  It  is  empty  1  More  passes  by  the  assis- 
tant, and  the  basket  is  filled  again.  In  spite  of  my 
skepticism,  I  am  forced  to  bow  before  the  reality 
of  facts.  It  is  impossible,  moreover,  to  explain 
this  experience  except,  perhaps,  by  the  aid  of  some 
suggestion  they  have  forced  upon  us.  If  that  is  the 


ROSE-COLORED  JEYPORE  27 

case,  we  have  been  "fakirized,"  if  I  may  call  it 
so.  What  a  humiliation  for  a  wide-awake,  well- 
regulated  citizen! 

Another  trick,  even  more  stupefying.  From  a 
goatskin  bottle  the  juggler — this  one  is  certainly 
clever — draws  a  living  adder  and  turns  it  over  to 
a  mongoose,  who  makes  but  one  mouthful  of  it. 
The  reptile,  bitten  and  torn  everywhere,  pierced 
all  over  by  the  sharp  teeth  of  his  adversary,  is  no 
longer  anything  but  a  bloody  rag.  This  remnant, 
chewed  and  almost  in  shreds,  twists  lamentably 
about  on  the  ground.  The  fakir  thereupon  seizes 
it  between  his  first  finger  and  thumb  and  extends 
it  on  its  back.  Then  he  murmurs  some  strange 
words  and  with  his  thumbnail  gently  strokes  sev- 
eral times  the  white  scales  of  the  belly.  This 
caress,  repeated  several  times,  is,  properly  speak- 
ing, nothing  but  the  lightest  touch,  it  is  not  even 
a  massage.  .  .  .  And  behold,  little  by  little,  the 
creature  comes  to  life  again,  contracts  and  distends 
itself,  twists  about  and  finally,  with  a  violent  blow 
of  its  tail,  restores  itself  to  its  original  and  normal 
axis.  It  is  the  return  of  life,  complete  and  whole : 
crawling,  dartings  of  a  fierce  tongue,  everything 
has  come  back  as  if  by  enchantment;  the  flat  and 
flabby  body  has  swelled  up  again  as  if  some  new 
sap  had  suddenly  revivified  it.  It  is  impossible  to 


28  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

suspect  a  substitution:  it  is  certainly  the  same 
adder;  I  recognize  it  by  its  still  bleeding  wounds. 
Let  who  will  explain  it.  .  .  .  /  have  seen  this/ 

How  enigmatical  these  people  are!  On  certain 
sides  quite  childish,  at  times  profound  thinkers  and 
philosophers,  and  whether  submissive  or  in  revolt, 
always  grave,  they  positively  disconcert  me.  Is 
this  amazing  juggler  actually  of  the  same  race  as 
these  lazy  strollers  whom  I  meet  now,  hand  in 
hand,  in  the  Mohollo  Kamnigar  or  goldsmith's 
quarter?  How  prosaic  are  these  grain  merchants, 
crouching  on  their  doorsills,  these  youths  who,  as 
they  walk,  are  drying  in  the  sun  long  pieces  of 
damp  cloth,  these  children  playing  about  among 
the  pigeons  pecking  in  the  square  of  Manak- 
Chowk.  Nevertheless,  from  such  as  these,  from 
these  Aryans,  have  come  the  Yogis,  the  contem- 
platives,  the  thaumaturgists  who  confound  our 
most  subtle  metaphysicians.  .  .  . 

On  the  sidewalks,  cluttered  with  pigeons, 
women  pass,  their  nostrils  pierced  with  a  silver 
ring,  their  arms  and  ankles  loaded  with  tinkling 
bracelets;  their  veils  and  saris  giving,  amid  the 
huckstering  of  the  merchants  and  the  idle  chatter, 
a  note  of  grace  and  rhythm.  From  afar  come  dull, 
hoarse  growls  from  the  nine  cages  of  the  public 
menagerie  of  Cherouka-Pindjera,  where,  at  his 


ROSE-COLORED  JEYPORE  29 

own  expense,   His  Highness  supports  the  State 
tigers. 

Curious,  indeed,  this  people,  who  neglect  to  re- 
lieve the  misery  and  sickness  of  human  beings  in 
order  to  provide  food  for  their  natural  enemies, 
the  wild  beasts  1 


CHAPTER  IV 


HINDU  WIVES  AND  WIDOWS 

The  sad  fate  of  the  women — The  humanity  of  the  English — 
The  work  of  Lady  Dufferin,  ex-Vicereine  of  India — The 
law  of  Manu  and  its  cruel  articles — Plebeians  and  patri- 
cians— Dramas  of  the  women's  quarters. 

GENERAL  study  of  India,  that 
fairylike,  marvelous  land  of  tu- 
multuous, fanatical,  suffering  hu- 
manity, is  a  sufficiently  bold  task. 
There  are  so  many  contrasts  in  it 
to  the  ordinary  conceptions  of  our 
European  minds! 

Are  we  interested  in  the  situation  of  the  Hindu 
women?  Then  we  fall  into  the  midst  of  a  paradox. 
No  betrothed  girl,  no  wife,  no  widow  in  the 
universe  leads  a  life  so  painful,  so  rigorous,  so 
closely  shut  in.  I  have  traveled  all  over  Europe 
and  the  Northern  countries,  I  have  seen  the  dis- 
tress of  the  women  among  the  nomad  peoples  of 
the  extreme  North,  I  have  also  had  an  opportunity 

to  observe  the  physical  imprisonment  and  moral 

30 


HINDU  WIVES  AND  WIDOWS          31 

disenchantment  of  the  Orientals  in  the  land  of  the 
Crescent,  their  effacement  in  the  Celestial  Empire, 
their  puerility  in  the  Land  of  the  Rising  Sun; 
later,  in  Oceanica  or  during  long  months  of  ex- 
ploration, I  have  sailed  around  islands  and  archi- 
pelagoes and  seen  to  what  a  state  of  inferiority  the 
Papua  women  of  New  Guinea  and  the  Maori 
women  of  New  Zealand  had  fallen,  those  Maoris 
who  yet  rival  our  own  Tahitian  women  in  charm. 
Well !  I  must  confess  that  not  in  the  polar  regions, 
not  in  the  harems  of  Algeria,  Tunis,  Turkey, 
Egypt  or  Arabia,  not  in  the  Far  East,  not  in  Aus- 
tralia, nor  in  Polynesia,  not  even  among  the  Red- 
skins of  America  have  I  witnessed  a  downfall  of 
the  feminine  sex  so  irremediable,  so  heart-rending 
as  in  the  women's  quarters  among  the  Brahmans. 

It  must  not  be  imagined  that  I  am  exaggerating. 
I  should  not  like  to  seem  to  be  deliberately  making 
these  brief  observations  of  mine  dramatic.  The 
condition  of  the  Hindu  woman  is  certainly  unfor- 
tunate and  deplorable  in  every  way;  but  we  must 
recognize  that  it  tends  to  improve  from  day  to  day 
and  to  become  more  supportable,  since  the  liberal 
Administration  of  the  United  Kingdom  has  let  fall 
upon  the  land  the  manna  of  its  indisputable 
benefits. 

In  this  connection — since  we  are  speaking  of  an 


32  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

allied  and  friendly  nation — let  us  first  render  full 
and  prompt  justice  to  the  tales,  the  lies  and  the 
slanders  which  have  become  the  monopoly  of  a 
certain  section  of  the  press  and  literature,  a  sec- 
tion mediocre  enough  in  any  case.  When  I  first 
set  out  for  India,  in  1908,  I  left,  I  must  confess, 
with  an  unbelievable  prejudice  against  our  neigh- 
bors across  the  channel.  To  be  frank,  I  was  pre- 
pared to  find  everything  wrong  and  to  criticize 
and  denounce,  in  the  great  Parisian  newspapers, 
reviews  and  magazines l  of  which  I  was  the  corre- 
spondent, the  abuses  and  malpractices  of  the  occu- 
pying race.  In  my  innermost  heart  there  was  a 
secret  wound  to  my  patriotism,  the  bitterness  of  a 
Frenchman  against  the  ravishers  of  our  Indian 
empire  of  Dupleix,  a  feeling  not  unlike  what  I 
had  experienced  a  short  time  before  on  pressing 
the  Canadian  soil  of  our  heroic  Montcalm. 

A  first  minute  and  honest  inquiry,  to  the  fruits 
of  which  have  since  been  added  other  observations 
gathered  during  the  course  of  my  second  visit,  con- 
verted me  to  a  diametrically  opposed  opinion ;  to 
tell  the  truth,  I  have  returned  thoroughly  con- 
vinced of  the  pacific  and  humanitarian  role  of  the 
English.  These  are  not  vain  words,  dictated  by 

1  Echo  dt  Paris,  Rtvut  Hebdomadaire,  Illustration,  Monde  lllustrt, 
Ftmina,  etc. 


A    BAYADERE    DANCE 


SNAKE    AND    SCORPION    CHARMERS 


THRESHING   OUT    EARTH-NUTS 


GRINDING    EARTH-NUTS    TO    EXTRACT    Oil. 


HINDU  WIVES  AND  WIDOWS          33 

gratitude  or  politeness  towards  the  British  hosts 
who  received  me  so  cordially.  I  am  expressing 
purely  and  simply  nothing  but  my  own  thoughts. 
Ever  since  the  English  have  presided  over  the  des- 
tinies of  the  Empire,  there  have  been  no  more  of 
those  abominable  human  sacrifices  in  the  pagodas, 
no  more  of  those  suttees,  hideous  sacrifices  of 
widows,  no  more  of  those  mad  orgies  of  murder, 
torture  and  debauchery!  Less  sickness,  fewer  epi- 
demics, fewer  famines,  fewer  internal  wars  I  It 
is  the  pax  Britannica  (which  may  be  compared  to 
our  own  beneficent  influence  in  Morocco),  the 
great  peace  which  permits  commerce  to  develop 
and  humanity  to  live  better  and  suffer  less. 

Shall  I  relate  some  anecdotes  on  this  subject? 
...  I  remember  the  charming  and  chivalrous  act 
of  an  English  officer  in  garrison  at  Landi- 
Kotal,  on  the  outposts  of  Afghanistan.  Preceded 
by  Lieutenant  W.T.F. — of  the  57th  regiment, 
Wilde's  Rifles,  I  had  entered  one  of  the  little 
streets  of  the  Afghan  quarter.  A  Moslem  woman, 
whose  veil  was  raised  to  her  forehead  and  allowed 
her  gracious  face  to  be  seen,  had  just  come  out  of 
an  adjoining  shop.  The  officer  noticed  it  and  cried 
out  sharply,  "Yoki!  Yoki!"  The  woman,  whose 
attention  had  been  aroused  by  this  cry,  instantly 
lowered  her  veil  and  passed  us  by  without  our 


34  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

being  able  to  see  her  features,  so  that  neither  her 
modesty  nor  her  orthodoxy  was  in  the  least  dis- 
turbed. I  could  multiply  such  occurrences  to  in- 
finity. It  will  suffice,  for  example,  to  recall  the 
respect  which  the  Anglo-Saxons  insist  shall  be 
shown  in  the  temples  and  pagodas,  where  the 
foreigner  finds  himself  bound,  under  severe  penal- 
ties, to  maintain  "the  same  decent  and  respectful 
attitude  which  he  would  maintain  in  the  interior 
o,f  his  own  churches"  (sic).  Moreover,  in  certain 
sanctuaries,  large  notices  forbid  smoking  and  loud 
talking.  The  same  tact  is  responsible  for  the  de- 
crees which  forbid  hunting  in  several  parts  of  the 
country,  which  are  nevertheless  full  of  game,  such 
as  Muttra,  the  sacred  land  of  the  beasts,  where 
Krishna  lived  his  poetic  and  amorous  idyll,  in  the 
midst  of  the  human  beings  of  the  villages  and  the 
beasts  of  the  jungle. 

In  the  matter  of  education  and  social  uplift,  I 
must  also  mention  the  admirable  initiative  of  the 
English  women  and  their  American  sisters  who, 
after  having  studied  medicine  in  Europe,  have 
not  hesitated  to  enroll  themselves  under  the  banner 
of  Lady  Dufferin,  the  wife  of  the  former  viceroy 
of  India,  in  order  to  carry  the  aid  of  medicine  and 
surgery  to  the  most  distant  corners  of  the  immense 
Empire.  It  is  well  known  that  the  law  and  the 


HINDU  WIVES  AND  WIDOWS          35 

modesty  of  the  Brahmans  forbid  the  Hindu  wo- 
man to  receive  the  help  of  a  male  physician. 
England  has  shown  here  also,  that  if  she  was  ca- 
pable of  enriching  herself  from  the  land  of  her 
Asiatic  vassals,  she  also  understood  the  duties  laid 
on  her  by  her  role  as  a  great  civilized  nation.  Let 
us  salute  her  daughters  with  the  same  respect  that 
we  give  to  our  own  French  women  of  the  Red 
Cross. 

But  to  return  to  the  condition  of  the  native  wo- 
man. Her  fate  has  been  determined,  from  the 
remotest  antiquity,  by  the  theocratic  code  of  the 
Brahmans,  a  sort  of  religious,  civil  and  moral 
catechism  called  the  Law  of  Manu.  Without 
transcribing  the  whole  of  Book  V  of  this  social 
monument  (although  the  reading  of  it  would  not 
fail  to  be  curious,  piquant  and  at  times  excessively 
amusing)  let  us  be  content  with  plucking  blossoms, 
here  and  there,  from  its  flower-beds,  in  order  the 
better  to  appreciate  all  its  exotic  perfume. 

To  begin  with,  this  first  handful : 

"  The  name  of  a  woman''  says  the  Law  of  Manu, 
"should  be  easy  to  pronounce,  sweet,  clear  and 
agreeable;  it  should  end  in  long  vowels  and  re- 
semble words  of  benediction." 

Is  not  this  indeed  deliciously  poetic,  excluding 


36  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

as  it  does  all  unfamiliar  and  inharmonious  appel- 
lations? 

Let  us  pass  on  to  the  law  of  obedience : 

"A  little  girl,  a  young  woman,  a  woman  of 
advanced  years  should  never,  even  in  her  own 
home,  obey  her  own  wishes.  A  woman  must  never 
rule  herself:  in  her  childhood  she  obeys  her  father; 
in  her  youth  her  husband;  when  her  husband  dies, 
she  obeys  her  sons." 

(See  and  compare  with  this,  article  213  of  our 
Civil  Code:  "The  husband  owes  protection  to  his 
wife,  the  wife  obedience  to  her  husband.") 

The  Law  of  Manu  goes  further  than  our  Code. 
It  regulates  the  conduct  of  the  wife  in  her  home; 
and  its  solicitude,  I  was  about  to  say  its  meddling, 
extends  to  the  most  intimate  details  of  the  hearth, 
the  business  of  the  household  and  even  of  the 
kitchen : 

"The  woman  must  always  be  good-tempered  and 
must  skilfully  conduct  the  affairs  of  her  home.  She 
must  take  great  care  of  the  household  utensils  and 
of  the  preparation  of  the  food,  and  know  how  to 
watch  over  the  well-being  of  her  husband,  while 
spending  as  little  as  possible." 

Finally,  here  is  a  law  which  I,  for  my  part,  can- 
not help  considering  Draconian,  in  spite  of  my 
belonging  to  the  strong  and  ugly  sex : 


HINDU  WIVES  AND  WIDOWS          37 

"If  the  conduct  of  the  husband  is  blameworthy, 
if  he  gives  himself  over  to  other  loves  and  even  if 
he  is  without  good  qualities,  the  wife  must  remain 
virtuous  and  constantly  revere  him  as  a  god" 

But,  we  ask,  if  the  woman  does  not  heed  this,  if 
the  wife  transgresses  the  sacred  prescriptions  of  the 
Law  of  Manu,  what  will  become  of  her? 

I  tremble  to  write  it: 

"The  woman  unfaithful  to  her  husband  is  given 
over  to  ignominy  during  the  whole  of  her  earthly 
life.  After  death,  she  is  born  again  in  the  belly 
of  a  jackal,  or  else  she  is  afflicted  with  elephantiasis 
or  tuberculosis." 

Which  is  enough  to  render  thoughtful  and  virtu- 
ous even  some  of  the  heroines  of  Bourget  and 
Prevost! 

But  let  us  speak  a  little  of  marriage.  They 
marry  very  young  in  India,  almost  before  they  are 
weaned.  This  is  not  a  jest.  Children  are  be- 
trothed at  the  breast,  and  what  our  young  candi- 
dates for  the  degree  of  'matrimony  call  by  the 
pretty  medieval  name  of  "courting"  takes  place 
here  between  the  rattle  and  the  hoop.  These  mar- 
riages of  children  who  know  each  other  not  at  all 
— or  very  little — are  extremely  frequent.  The  real, 
effective  marriage  naturally  does  not  take  place 
until  between  the  ages  of  twelve  and  fifteen.  But 


38  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

in  the  meantime  there  is  no  possibility  of  breaking 
the  engagement  between  the  fictitious  husband  and 
wife.  So  true  is  this  that — terrible  as  it  is  to  say 
it — if  one  of  the  infant  couple  dies  (that  is  to  say, 
the  husband)  the  other  is  compelled  to  remain 
single  for  the  rest  of  life:  it  is  henceforth  forbid- 
den to  her  to  think  of  marriage.  This  pitiless  de- 
cree naturally  applies  only  to  the  woman,  always 
so  unjustly  treated  by  the  Brahmans. 

The  Law  of  Manu  says  expressly: 

"After  having  lost  her  husband,  the  widow  must 
shave  her  hair  and  voluntarily  let  her  body  grow 
thin,  by  nourishing  herself  only  on  flowers  and 
pure  fruit;  she  must  never  think  of  marrying 
again,  nor  even  pronounce  the  name  of  another 


man." 


More  yet!  The  widows  of  the  rite  of  Siva  are 
allowed  to  have  only  one  meal  a  day  and  never  eat 
fish.  Let  us  note  in  passing  that  the  rite  accord- 
ing to  Vishnu  allows  some  mitigations  of  this 
regime  of  torture.  All  these  reasons  and  many 
others  explain  why,  to  his  astonishment,  the  Euro- 
pean traveler  meets  so  few  women  in  India. 
Some,  principally  those  of  the  North,  never  leave 
their  harems  or  zenanas,  from  which  they  watch 
the  coming  and  going  in  the  streets  from  the  ter- 
races of  their  houses,  through  the  open-work 


HINDU  WIPES  AND  WIDOWS          39 

screens  of  pink  pottery  or  white  marble.  Others 
go  out  veiled  or  in  palanquins  borne  on  the  arms  of 
fierce  eunuchs  with  fiery  eyes.  It  is  only  in  the 
country  of  the  Sikhs,  in  the  Punjab,  at  Amritsar, 
for  example,  that  one  sees  long  lines  of  young  and 
adorable  women  moving,  with  uncovered  faces, 
about  the  Golden  Temple  or  on  the  porphyry  and 
onyx  steps  of  the  Lake  of  Immortality.  But  these 
are  not  followers  of  the  formidable  Brahmanistic 
faith,  they  are  the  poetic  disciples  of  the  Book- 
god,  the  pantheistic  and  relatively  modern  religion 
of  the  Granths,  founded  by  the  guru  Nanak  who, 
in  the  sixteenth  century  of  our  era,  was  the  reform- 
ing Luther  of  Brahmanism.  In  southern  India, 
on  the  coast  of  Coromandel,  and  in  the  country  of 
Malabar,  I  also  had  the  pleasure  and  consolation 
of  seeing,  at  Madras,  at  Tanjore,  at  Sri-Ragham,  at 
Trichinopoly,  at  Madura,  the  women  of  the  people 
belonging  to  the  kindlier  rite  of  Vishnu,  moving 
freely  about  without  veils,  in  the  market  and  pub- 
lic squares,  the  body  gracefully  curved,  the  head 
held  high  and  surmounted  by  a  jar,  the  gestures 
as  graceful  as  those  of  Tanagra  figurines. 

I  have  spoken  of  the  women  of  the  people  who 
follow  the  rites  of  Siva  and  Vishnu,  the  two  great 
gods  of  India — for  Brahma,  the  principal  creator, 


40  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

is  so  high  that  only  the  priests  are  allowed  to  adore 
him ;  I  shall  speak  later  of  the  bayadere ;  it  remains 
for  me  to  say  a  few  words  of  the  sovereign,  of  her 
who,  in  the  Hindustani  tongue,  is  called  ranee  or 
maharanee  (queen  or  great  queen). 

In  the  first  place,  the  ranee  must  be  of  an  old 
and  illustrious  caste.  It  is  not  rare,  in  India,  to 
see  a  prince,  the  possessor  of  an  income  of  thirty 
or  forty  millions,  marry  the  daughter  of  a  poor, 
ruined  Brahman.  If  the  caste  is  ancient  and  of 
celebrated  origin,  it  is  he  who  is  flattered  and  en- 
nobled by  this  marriage,  which  makes  him  almost 
the  ally  and  relative  of  the  gods.  I  am  speaking 
here,  of  course,  of  the  first  wife,  she  who  is  re- 
garded as  legitimate  by  the  people  and  the  sup- 
porters of  the  crown,  and  who  will  be  the  mother 
of  the  Crown  Prince.  Let  us  not,  therefore,  call 
her  the  "favorite,"  as  is  done  in  Turkey  or  in 
Persia,  an  epithet  applied,  on  the  contrary,  to  all 
the  wives  and  concubines  which  later  throng  the 
polygamous  harem  of  the  Indian  monarch.  Such, 
for  example,  is  the  case  with  the  Nizam  of  Hyde- 
rabad, whose  zenana  numbers  several  hundred 
women. 

The  ranee  does  not  reign.  She  must  content 
herself  with  being  the  effaced  wife  of  the  rajah, 
and  the  mother  and  teacher  of  the  princes.  Never- 


HINDU  WIVES  AND  WIDOWS          41 

thclcss,  this  rule  suffers  a  few  rare  exceptions  in 
Central  India,  at  Bhopal,  for  example,  where  for 
centuries  the  scepter  has  fallen  on  the  distaff  side 
to  the  hands  of  a  Begum,  a  sort  of  queen  of  the 
Low  Countries,  who  administers  her  State  without 
the  help  of  her  prince  consort  A  curious  offshoot 
of  feminism  in  a  soil  usually  so  hostile  to  it! 

The  ranee,  who  is  not  at  the  same  time  an  eman- 
cipated Begum,  thus  passes  her  days  mournfully 
behind  the  closed  blinds  of  the  women's  quarters, 
surrounded  by  her  followers,  her  dancers  and  her 
musicians.  She  leaves  as  little  as  possible — far 
less  often  than  her  disenchanted  Ottoman  sisters 
— the  golden  cage  which  has  been  assigned  to  her 
as  a  dwelling.  And  if  she  is  obliged  to  go  out,  it 
is  always  hearily  veiled,  in  a  closely  screened  lan- 
dau, sheltered  from  the  indiscreet  glances  of  the 
crowd  and  above  all  from  those  of  impure  stran- 
gers. A  few  liberal  rajahs,  like  the  Maharajahs 
of  Kapurthala,  of  Gwalior,  of  Cooch-Behar,  the 
Nawab  of  Burdwan,  the  Gaekwar  of  Baroda,  have 
somewhat  tempered  this  rigid  regime ;  they  allow 
their  ranees  to  move  freely  about,  with  uncovered 
faces,  within  the  enclosure  of  the  palace  and  the 
royal  gardens;  at  times  they  even  go  so  far  as  to 
present  them  to  their  European  guests,  to  have 
them  sit  at  their  table  and  to  take  them  with  them 


42  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

to  Europe,  to  London  and  Paris.  But  these  inno- 
vations are  not  taken  in  good  part  by  the  people 
and  the  priests.  A  prince  is  also  blamed  by  his 
subjects,  with  more  show  of  reason,  when  he  mar- 
ries a  foreigner,  even  after  the  first  marriage  of  the 
legitimate  ranee.  Whatever  she  may  do,  the  new 
foreign  wife  or  concubine,  even  if  she  has  become 
a  convert  to  Brahmanism,  can  never  wash  away 
the  original  stain:  that  of  having  once  eaten  oxen 
and  cows,  sacred  animals!  An  indelible  blot  that 
will,  forever  after,  involve  her  in  a  moral  quaran- 
tine, full  of  secret  repugnance  and  invincible 
suspicion. 

It  is  impossible  to  form  any  idea  of  the  thou- 
sands and  thousands  of  intrigues  which  are  born 
and  come  to  a  head  every  day  in  the  interior  of  the 
zenana.  There  dramatic  alliances,  perfidious  be- 
trayals, somber  tragedies  take  place  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  perfume  and  flowers.  The  wives  who 
have  been  abandoned  for  some  stranger  from  the 
North  or  the  East  form  a  close  league  against  the 
newcomer,  against  the  intruder,  against  the  pre- 
ferred one.  Former  enemies  are  reconciled  and 
unite  in  the  common  vengeance  which  does  not 
stop  at  the  prospect  of  horrible  reprisals.  If  the 
plot  is  discovered,  the  favorite  of  the  day  easily  ob- 
tains from  her  master  the  death  of  the  guilty  person 


HINDU  WIVES  AND  WIDOWS          43 

or  persons,  by  the  cord,  the  dagger  or  the  brew  of 
hemp,  three  instruments  of  murder  that  never 
spare.  But  if  the  plot  succeeds  .  .  .  then  woe  to 
the  stranger!  She  must  remain  on  her  guard  day 
and  night,  and  never  accept  a  drink,  a  gift,  a 
sweetmeat,  not  even  a  flower  from  her  rivals. 
Quick  and  subtle  poison  lies  in  wait  for  her  every 
instant.  Princesses  have  been  known  to  be  sud- 
denly stung  by  a  scorpion  or  a  tarantula,  bitten  by 
a  cobra  or  a  coral  snake  or,  more  often,  to  struggle 
in  the  convulsions  of  a  frightful  agony,  their  intes- 
tines perforated  here  and  there  by  the  mustaches 
of  a  tiger,  treacherously  introduced  into  packets  of 
drugs.  I  could  give  names  and  dates;  but  I  owe 
discretion  to  the  magnificent  hosts  who  received 
me  so  warmly.  Therefore,  I  shall  not  betray  the 
word  I  gave  to  those  who  themselves  made  me  such 
terrible  confidences. 

To  sum  up,  in  whatever  sphere,  the  fate  of  the 
Hindu  woman,  plebeian  or  patrician,  is  worthy  of 
exciting  our  deepest  compassion.  And  if  the  danc- 
ing girl,  as  we  shall  see  later  on,  escapes  this  unfor- 
tunate law,  it  is,  alas!  only  at  the  expense  of  her 
morals. 


PART  II 


CHAPTER  V 


THERE  ARE  RAJAHS  AND  RAJAHS 

A  rival  of  the  "Nabob" — As  in  the  days  of  the  fairies — An 
Indian  fire-eater — Innovating  rajahs — The  story  of  a  dis- 
grace— The  Mohour — A  judgment  of  God. 


OR  as  many  as  sixteen  years,  Paris 
has  possessed  no  longer  its  Nabob — 
his  sun  set  with  my  illustrious  and 
regretted  father-in-law,  Alphonse 
Daudet — but  its  Rajah,  or,  more 
exactly,  its  Maharajah. 
Which  of  us  has  not  met  in  the  fashionable 
world,  in  the  saddling-room  at  Auteuil,  at  a  first 
night  in  the  Theatre  Frangais,  on  varnishing-day 
at  our  Salons  (where  the  late  Chartran  depicted 
him  in  1906),  a  certain  bronze-complexioned 
prince,  with  a  black  pointed  beard,  smiling  with 
all  his  dazzling  white  teeth,  who,  almost  every 
year,  from  May  to  October,  leaves  his  kingdom  in 
India  to  come  and  bathe  in  our  atmosphere  of  art 
and  elegance,  as  in  a  life-giving  bath  of  light  and 
gaiety? 

47 


48  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

His  Highness  Jagatjit  Singh,  Maharajah  of 
Kapurthala,  one  of  the  ruling  princes  of  the  Pun- 
jab, is  virtually  one  of  us  at  all  the  receptions,  all 
the  gymkhanas,  all  the  Persian  balls.  One  finds 
him  now  at  Dampierre,  with  the  Luynes,  now  at 
Chaumont,  with  the  Broglies.  And  there  the  Ma4- 
harajah  forgets  that  he  has  the  power  of  life  and 
death  over  his  subjects,  in  his  Sikh  kingdom  of 
Kapurthala,  as  well  as  in  his  two  provinces  in 
Oudh:  Baondi  and  Bharaich.  Who  can  boast  of 
being  more  French  in  taste  and  tendencies  than 
this  Asiatic  potentate,  who  speaks  our  language  so 
purely,  from  whom  the  treasures  of  our  art  and 
literature  hold  no  more  secrets,  who  numbers  his 
best  friends  in  the  French  book  of  heraldry,  who 
has  had  his  sons  brought  up  at  the  College  des 
Cleres,  in  Normandy,  near  Rouen,  and  even  car- 
ries his  love  of  our  ways  so  far  as  to  have  his  cooks 
and  his  chauffeurs  taught  at  Paris? 

But  one  link  was  lacking  from  this  chain.  And 
back  again  in  his  capital  the  Maharajah  dreamed 
once  more,  dreamed  always  and  in  spite  of  every- 
thing of  Paris,  of  France.  .  .  .  He  dreamed  of  it 
with  melancholy,  in  one  of  his  many  Indian  or 
Moorish  palaces  of  Kapurthala,  on  the  terrace  of 
his  enchanting  villa,  Buona- Vista,  or  again  in  that 
curious  Renaissance  chateau  of  Mussoorie  which 


H.    H.    JAGATJIT   SINGH,    MAHARAJAH    OF    KAPURTHALA   (PUNJAB) 


H.    H.    PRINCESS   BRINDAHMATI    OF    JUBBAL,    WHO    BY    HER    MARRIAGE 
BECAME    CROWN-PRINCESS   OF    KAPURTHALA 


THERE  ARE  RAJAHS  AND  RAJAHS    49 

he  had  built,  like  an  eagle's  nest,  in  the  Himalaya, 
at  an  altitude  of  2,300  meters.  Suddenly,  as  hap- 
pens in  fairy  tales,  the  magician  extends  his  wand: 
"I  wish,"  he  saysv"the  mirage  of  Paris!" 

A  few  lakhs  of  rupees  tinkle.  .  .  .  And  an  im- 
mense, colossal  palace,  of  a  style  exclusively 
French,  surrounded  everywhere  by  French  gar- 
dens, lawns,  vases,  statues  and  gushing  fountains, 
rose  from  the  ancient  and  astonished  soil  of  the 
Sikhs.  It  was  at  this  time,  being  invited  with  the 
most  gracious  insistence  to  be  present  at  "the  hang- 
ing of  the  crane"  in  this  French  palace,  that  I  first 
went  to  India. 

Speaking  of  this  prince,  an  amusing  anecdote 
occurs  to  me  which  shows  all  the  caustic  wit  of 
which,  on  occasion,  he  is  capable. 

Some  years  ago,  during  the  early  days  of  his  life 
in  Paris,  the  Maharajah  went  one  evening  to  the 
Trone  fair,  accompanied  by  some  friends  who  had 
a  taste  for  outlandish  and  unusual  enjoyments.  In 
a  booth,  an  imitation  Indian  was  devouring  impar- 
tially fire,  glass  and  serpents. 

"Who  would  like  to  talk  Indian  with  the  fire- 
eater?"  shouted  his  Barnum,  in  a  sonorous  voice, 
through  a  megaphone. 

"I,"  answered  the  Maharajah. 

Smilingly,  he  approached  the  platform  and  in 


50  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

his  sweetest  voice,  revealing  his  dazzling  Asiatic 
teeth,  the  prince  asked  several  questions  in  Hindu- 
stani of  the  eater  of  fire,  glass  and  serpents,  who  of 
course  remained  tongue-tied.  It  was  in  vain  that 
His  Highness  next  tried  all  the  dialects  in  use  in 
the  peninsula:  Sikh,  Urdu,  Sanscrit,  Nepalesc, 
Bengali,  Tamil,  Malabar.  .  .  .  The  mountebank, 
bearded  with  wax  and  ocher,  did  not  answer,  and 
with  good  cause. 

The  manager,  very  much  annoyed  at  this  little 
scene,  then  intervened,  saying  to  the  royal  ques- 
tioner :  "Look  here,  excuse  me,  but  when  will  you 
stop  splitting  our  heads  with  all  this  gibberish  of 
yours?  It's  no  use!  Come,  we  can  easily  see  you 
are  no  Indian." 

The  prince  protested,  very  much  amused. 

"Well,  if  you  are  an  Indian,"  went  on  the  dis- 
player  of  savages,  "go  ahead  and  eat  a  little  glass 
and  fire ;  they  all  eat  them  out  there." 

"That's  right  1"  cried  the  people,  interested  in 
what  was  happening;  "let  him  eat  some  fire!" 

Then,  still  smiling,  the  Maharajah  said  simply, 
tapping  the  hollow  of  his  stomach:  "Impossible,  I 
am  on  a  diet!" 

And  he  went  off. 

Rara  avis,  you  will  say.  .  .  . 

No  indeed  1    Other  potentates  of  India  have  fol- 


THERE  ARE  RAJAHS  AND  RAJAHS    51 

lowed  this  example,  among  them  the  Maharajah 
of  Gwalior,  the  Aga-Khan,  the  Gaekwar  of 
Baroda,  the  Jam  of  Nawanagar,  the  cricket  cham- 
pion, the  Nawab  of  Burdwan,  arbiter  elegantia- 
rum:  Europe — London  or  Paris — has  concjuered 
them.  They  no  longer  fear  openly  to  display  their 
modern  tendencies.  The  Maharajah  of  Gwalior, 
for  example,  has  actually  renounced  polygamy;  it 
is  said  that  at  the  death  of  his  mother  (the  dowager 
queen),  his  only  wife,  the  present  Maharanee, 
with  whom  he  is  very  much  in  love,  will  give  up 
the  veil  and  show  her  face  uncovered,  as  the  Ma- 
haranee of  Cooch-Behar  and  her  daughters  al- 
ready do  at  Calcutta.  As  for  the  Gaekwar  of  Ba- 
roda, he  has  revolutionized  his  country  and  even 
the  imperial  English  government  by  his  subversive 
and  extreme  social  projects.  Imagine  it!  He  has 
carried  the  paradox  so  far  as  to  found  schools  for 
girls! 

But  by  the  side  of  these  enlightened  minds,  with 
liberal  ideas,  how  many  reactionaries  there  are, 
how  many  backward  men  who  are  not  yet  free 
from  the  oppressive  guardianship  of  the  Brah- 
mans,  who  are  forbidden  by  their  orthodox  faith 
to  come  in  contact  with  the  impure  feringhis, 
eaters  of  cows!  ...  Of  what  use  would  it  be  to 
give  their  names?  It  is  better  to  let  them  fall  into 


52  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

oblivion,  those  whose  fanaticism  separates  them 
forever  from  our  civilization  and  our  Occidental 
way  of  thinking. 

What  strange  court  customs  surround  these 
jewel-laden  princes!  Powerful  in  their  immense 
wealth  and  in  their  omnipotence  in  the  heart  of 
their  own  kingdoms — at  least  in  everything  that 
does  not  concern  the  army  and  the  finances  of  the 
country — the  Indian  monarchs  surround  them- 
selves with  a  veritable  horde  of  ministers  and 
courtiers.  The  official  etiquette  is  excessively 
rigorous  and  the  strict  observance  of  these  rules 
sometimes  gives  rise  to  the  severest  consequences. 
One  incident  will  show  this.  At  the  court  of  a 
prince  of  my  acquaintance,  I  was  present,  one  day, 
at  the  annual  feudal  presentation  of  the  Mohour, 
synonymous  with  the  oath  of  fealty  of  our  Middle 
Ages.  The  ceremony  consists  in  summoning  each 
vassal,  who  defiles,  in  hierarchical  order,  before 
the  king  clothed  in  his  full  military  costume. 
Each  one  bows  down  as  he  pronounces  an  official 
phrase,  then  he  touches  the  sovereign's  hand  with 
a  silver  rupee,  which  he  afterwards  drops  into  a 
silver  plate.  This  lasts  for  three  long  hours  and 
at  the  end  of  ten  minutes  becomes  exasperatingly 
monotonous.  One  of  the  chamberlains,  a  sort  of 


THERE  ARE  RAJAHS  AND  RAJAHS    53 

under-Secretary  of  State,  I  imagine,  who  had  been 
a  favorite  until  this  day,  was  passing  before  the 
throne.  Unfortunately,  as  he  went  by,  I  do  not 
know  how  it  happened,  but  his  foot  caught  in  the 
fold  of  a  rug;  he  stumbled  and  the  piece  of  tribute 
fell  before  it  had  touched  the  king's  hand.  Then  I 
saw  the  latter  throw  a  hard,  implacable  look  at 
the  courtier,  who  reddened,  stammered  an  excuse, 
and  withdrew,  quite  out  of  countenance.  It  ap- 
peared that  by  not  letting  the  symbolic  rupee  touch 
his  sovereign,  the  vassal  had  proved  as  plain  as 
day  his  flagrant  bad  faith  toward  his  lord  and 
master.  Tradition  demands,  in  the  case  of  such  a 
"Judgment  of  God,"  that  he  be  immediately 
stripped  of  his  functions  and  fall  into  disgrace. 

Very  autocratic  in  regard  to  their  immediate 
circle  of  favorites  and  courtiers — I  am  speaking, 
naturally,  of  the  reactionaries — these  sovereigns 
have  the  power  of  life  and  death  over  their  wives 
and  children,  and  even  over  all  the  servants  in  the 
palace  and  the  women's  quarters.  In  certain  Cen- 
tral States  the  English,  who  are  always  very  re- 
spectful of  the  vested  power  of  their  proteges 
within  their  own  domains,  have  recognized  that 
princes  of  the  reigning  dynasties  have  the  right  of 
life  and  death  over  all  their  subjects.  And  the 


54  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

good  pleasure  of  the  king  can  have  the  chamber- 
lain or  the  minister  whom  he  merely  suspects 
crushed  under  the  foot  of  the  executioner-elephant. 

Suspicion.  .  .  . 

The  hidden  disease  that  devours  them  I 


CHAPTER  VI 

AN  ASIATIC  MAECENAS 

En  route  for  the  Punjab — "Kartarpour,  Kartarpourl" — The 
arrival  at  the  court  of  H.  H.  Jagatjit  Singh,  Maharajah  of 
Kapurthala — A  royal  interview — Palace  and  gardens  a  la 
franfaise — In  imitation  of  the  great  Choiseul. 

AM  thinking  of  all  these  things  in 
the  express  which  carries  me  for 
the  first  time  toward  Kapurthala, 
to  my  friend  the  Maharajah,  a  very 
modern  prince,  who  gives  us  in 
France  the  example  of  the  complet- 
est  assimilation  of  European  ideas,  but  who,  once 
he  has  returned,  guards  no  less  completely — and 
jealously — the  customs,  habits  and  traditions  of  his 
people  and  his  country. 

Ah!  how  rapidly  they  fly  past  the  windows  of 
the  compartments,  the  stations  that  I  must  dash 
through  in  two  days  if  I  am  to  be  present  over 
there  at  the  festival  of  the  inauguration  of  the 
French  palace,  and  at  the  Durbar,  the  anniversary 
of  His  Highness.  Here  is  Baroda,  the  capital  of 

55 


56  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

the  Gaekwar  of  the  same  name.  Here  is  Ahmeda- 
bad,  the  ancient  city  of  the  sultans  of  Guzerat,  of 
which  Sir  Thomas  Roe  said  in  1616  that  it  was  "a 
city  as  large  as  London."  .  .  .  Here  is  Mount 
Abou,  with  its  lacework  temples,  at  the  entrance 
of  the  wild  desert  of  Rajputana.  .  .  .  Here  is 
Ajmeere,  here  is  Jeypore  the  Marvelous,  here  is 
Delhi,  which  for  centuries  was  the  capital  of  Asia. 
All  these  names,  shouted  in  Hindustani  by  the 
railway  guards,  call  up  hours  of  splendor  and  con- 
quest. What  does  it  matter  if  today  nothing  is  left 
but  the  dust  and  ashes  of  far-off  history?  These 
are  among  the  things  that  endure  and  are  never 
forgotten. 

The  interminable,  arid  and  monotonous  Rajput 
desert  has  disappeared.  And  with  it  those  bands 
of  monkeys  that  clung  so  amusingly  to  the  tele- 
graph poles,  those  slow  caravans  of  dromedaries 
bearing  southward  the  precious  essences  of  the 
North.  The  soil  now  shows  itself  productive;  it 
is  the  Punjab,  the  country  of  the  Sikhs,  yielding 
rich  harvests  of  sugar-cane,  cereals  and  cotton. 
We  should  like  to  open  our  eyes  and  keep  them 
constantly  open,  to  rivet  them  in  some  way  on  the 
fertile  and  sometimes  flowering  plains,  but  night 
has  come,  and  with  it  the  great  daily  care  of  in- 


AN  ASIATIC  MAECENAS  57 

stalling  the  bedding  on  the  uncomfortable  and 
dusty  bench. 

"Kartarpour!  Kartarpourl"  That  is  the  name 
which,  the  next  morning,  announces  the  end  of  the 
long  and  fatiguing  journey.  On  the  station  plat- 
form— a  real  little  country  station — one  of  His 
Highness's  stewards,  all  covered  with  silver  braid, 
his  sword  at  his  side,  installs  us,  my  companions 
and  me,  in  a  vast  limousine,  which  rolls  off  with 
irreproachable  smoothness,  while  our  baggage  is 
confided  to  graceful  little  trotting  mules. 

A  few  miles  ...  a  tornado  of  dust  behind  us. 
.  .  .  Then  tufts  of  eucalyptus,  aloes,  cacti,  orange- 
trees,  to  which  cling  the  vines  of  the  bougainvil- 
liers.  .  .  .  Next  a  very  wide,  straight  avenue ;  we 
pass  through  the  ceremonial  gates  of  the  park, 
made  of  wrought  iron  with  excellent  taste  in  the 
style  of  Lorraine.  .  .  .  The  auto  makes  a  skilful 
curve  before  the  perron  of  an  immense  palace,  in 
the  modern  French  style,  adorned  with  bas-reliefs, 
groups  and  statues — a  second  edition  of  our  Grand 
Palais  des  Champs-Elysees,  surrounded  by  French 
gardens  in  an  almost  identical  setting. 

The  guard,  assembled  under  arms,  reminds  us 
of  where  we  are.  The  lancers  who  throng  the 
perron — giants  over  six  feet  tall,  with  beards  and 


58  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

upstanding  mustaches — salute  us  with  their 
lances.  And  toward  us  advances,  with  his  hand 
outstretched,  a  smile  on  his  lips,  the  Dewan,  the 
prime  minister,  Colonel  Massey,  ex-Regent  of  the 
States  of  Kapurthala,  the  friend  of  the  Maharajah, 
to  whom,  as  well  as  to  several  Indian  officers  of  the 
General  Staff,  he  taught  English  and  French. 

"Yes,"  says  the  sovereign,  who  receives  me  in  a 
great  Louis  XVI  salon,  furnished  by  Arbusson 
and  decorated  with  mythological  panels,  "I 
wanted  to  realize  here  one  of  the  dreams  of  my 
life,  to  leave  behind  me  a  work  that  would  endure. 
You  know  how  devoted  I  am  to  French  art  in  all 
its  forms.  To  me,  French  art  stands  for  delicacy, 
elegance  and  above  all  for  harmony.  There  is 
nothing  disproportioned  in  it.  Everything  hangs 
together.  Look  at  a  portrait  by  Nattier,  a  bust  by 
Houdon,  or  a  facade  by  Mansart.  That  will  ex- 
plain to  you  why,  in  1900,  when  I  was  anxious  to 
build  in  my  capital  a  palace  in  European  style,  I 
did  not  hesitate  to  give  the  preference  to  your  art 
and  your  artists.  The  plans  for  my  palace  were, 
in  fact,  drawn  up  by  two  of  your  countrymen, 
MM.  Alexandre  Marcel  and  Paul  Boyer." 

"Just  when  did  Your  Highness  give  orders  to 
begin  the  foundations?" 

"In  1902.    The  work  was  carried  forward  with 


AN  ASIATIC  MAECENAS  59 

all  speed  between  1903  and  1908,  under  the  watch- 
ful direction  of  one  of  the  best  architects  of  Bom- 
bay, Mr.  H.  J.  A.  Bowden.  As  you  have  been 
able  to  judge  for  yourself,  MM.  Alexandre  Mar- 
cel and  Paul  Boyer  have  placed  on  the  exterior 
of  the  buildings  a  real  stamp  of  grandeur  and 
majesty.  As  for  the  interior  arrangement  of  the 
rooms,  everything  pure  and  gracious  offered  by 
your  art  is  synthesized  in  a  skilful  gradation  of 
every  epoch,  from  the  dining-room  and  the  Dur- 
bar, my  reception-room,  to  the  salons  in  the  styles 
of  Louis  XIII,  Louis  XV,  and  Louis  XVI,  up  to 
the  Empire  cabinet.  But  what  can  I  say  of  the 
details!  And  the  sculptures,  the  bas-reliefs,  car- 
ried out  so  personally  by  Desbois  and  Tessierl 
All  these  things  are  the  work  of  your  artists.  All 
the  credit  belongs  to  them.  I  have  done  nothing 
but  open  the  door  of  the  storehouse." 

The  Maharajah  becomes  animated.  He  speaks 
in  a  fresh,  cordial  voice,  behind  which  no  reserva- 
tion of  false  modesty  is  concealed.  But  what  this 
Maecenas  does  not  mention  is  the  price  it  has  cost 
him  to  "open  the  storehouse" — six  millions;  nor 
does  he  speak  of  the  minute  collector's  solicitude 
with  which  he  has  himself  presided  over  the  buy- 
ing and  arrangement  of  the  furniture,  the  rugs,  the 
paintings,  the  china  and  the  ornaments,  which,  one 


6o  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

and  all,  are  placed  in  a  setting  suitable  to  their 
style. 

A  question  rises  to  my  lips:  "And  the  French 
gardens  which  I  noticed  just  now?  Your  High- 
ness does  not  speak  of  them." 

"Ah!  yes!  the  French  gardens!  I  have  been 
especially  anxious  to  have  them.  They  are  rather 
shocking  over  here,  where  we  do  nothing  but  step 
from  the  impenetrable  jungle  into  the  winding 
paths  of  an  English  garden.  Frankly,  how  could 
I  have  done  otherwise?  And  besides,  for  a  lover 
of  Versailles — and  I  am  devoted  to  it — what  could 
be  more  suggestive  than  these  straight  avenues, 
symmetrical,  cut  at  right  angles?  Then,  too,  what 
could  be  more  poetic  than  these  thickets,  full  of 
shadow  and  mystery,  where  one  might  read  a  poem 
by  Henri  de  Regnier,  or  an  archaic  pastiche  of 
Francois  de  Nion?  In  the  same  classical  spirit 
— and  in  order  not  to  run  counter  to  the  geometri- 
cal idea  of  Le  Notre — I  have  had  them  place  be- 
fore the  principal  facade  the  basin  of  a  fountain, 
adorned  with  allegorical  statues  which  recall  the 
myths  dear  to  the  heart  of  the  Roy-Soleil.  In  this 
way,  I  shall  have,  even  in  India,  the  illusion  both 
of  Versailles  and  Paris.  A  French  park,  and  the 
'cousin'  of  your  Grand  Palais  des  Champs- 
Elysees.  What  better  could  I  ask?" 


AN  ASIATIC  MAECENAS  61 

And  a§  I  make  my  way  back  to  my  flowery  bun- 
galow, where  the  jays  are  whistling,  the  nightin- 
gales singing  and  the  emerald  paroquets  chatter- 
ing, the  memory  comes  to  me  of  that  other  Mae- 
cenas, a  great  French  seigneur  of  the  eighteenth 
century  who,  having  fallen  in  love  with  Chinese 
art,  also  had  his  way. 

His  name  was  Etienne-Frangois,  Duke  de 
Choiseul,  the  disgraced  minister  of  Louis  XV. 

And  in  his  love  for  the  Celestial  Empire  he  had 
built,  near  Amboise,  the  pagoda  of  Chanteloup. 


CHAPTER  VII 


AN   INDIAN  DURBAR 

What  is  meant  by  a  Durbar — A  princely  anniversary  horoscope 
— The  "repurchase"  of  power — The  review  of  the  Sepoys 
— A  typically  Indian  menu — The  dance  of  the  bayaderes — 
Why  the  bayadere  is  so  much  revered. 

N  Indian  Durbar  is  much  more  than 
a  fete,  it  is  much  more,  even,  than 
a  gala  celebration.  To  tell  the 
truth,  the  Hindustani  word  remains 
untranslatable,  as  untranslatable  as 
the  esotericism  of  the  Brahmans 
and  the  Buddhist  bonzes  often  is. 

The  Durbar  partakes  at  once  of  the  nature  of  a 
military  function,  a  religious  function,  and  a  social 
function.  The  people  are  admitted  only  to  the  two 
first  and  for  them  it  is  an  occasion  for  great  rejoic- 
ing: dances,  dramatic  spectacles  and  above  all 
feasts,  all  "at  the  expense  of  the  princess,"  when 
the  ruler  is  a  Begum,  as  at  Bhopal,  or  "at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  prince"  when  the  dispenser  of  this 

bounty  is  a  Mussulman  Nabob,  like  the  Nizam  of 

62 


AN  INDIAN  DURBAR  63 

Hyderabad,  or  a  Hindu  Maharajah,  like  H.  H. 
Jagatjit  Singh,  at  Kapurthala.  When  these  fes- 
tivities overflow  national  boundaries,  when  they 
pass  beyond  the  frontiers  of  the  independent  States, 
when  they  become  imperial — that  is  to  say  Eng- 
lish— the  expenditure  reaches  an  exorbitant  figure 
and  becomes  the  occasion  for  ruinous  prodigalities. 
Witness  the  grand  Durbar  at  Delhi,  in  1903,  which 
cost  the  Anglo-Indian  government  the  sum  of  200,- 
ooo  pounds  sterling  and  in  connection  with  which 
the  viceroy,  Lord  Curzon,  who  saw  to  many  things 
himself,  spent  out  of  his  own  purse  the  pretty 
little  sum  of  15,000  pounds.  As  we  can  see,  the 
India  of  today  has  not  fallen  behind  yesterday;  it 
still  remains  the  land,  uniquely  perhaps,  of  splen- 
dor, lavish  and  dazzling  splendor.  Was  not  this 
shown,  for  that  matter,  in  a  magical  way  at  the 
time  of  the  coronation  of  H.  M.  George  V? 

People  cry  up  the  hospitality  of  the  Scotch, 
which  has  become  proverbial.  I  have  never  put 
it  to  the  test;  but  I  tasted  several  years  ago,  long 
before  the  war,  the  charm  of  the  Hungarian  hos- 
pitality of  a  great  magnate  of  the  Crown  of  Saint 
Stephen,  my  dear  and  regretted  Count  Eugene 
Zichy,  a  true  friend  of  France,  and  a  great  noble 
as  well,  in  the  full  meaning  of  the  term,  since  he 
was  the  chamberlain  of  the  late  ex- Emperor  Fran- 


64  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

cis  Joseph  (which  did  not  prevent  me  from  being 
also  received  at  the  court  of  H.  M.  King  Peter  at 
Belgrade).  Well!  I  am  obliged  to  confess  that 
the  hospitality  of  a  rajah  far  surpasses  even  that  of 
the  noblest  and  most  fortunate  of  Magyars.  But 
it  is  not  my  intention  to  relate  here,  one  by  one,  the 
receptions,  attentions,  and  surprises  which  the 
master  of  an  Indian  household  can  shower  on  his 
guests.  Therefore  I  shall  pass  over  in  silence  the 
dinners,  balls,  and  soirees,  the  excursions  on  horse- 
back, by  auto,  by  coach,  by  yacht,  the  hunts  on 
elephant-back,1  the  visits  to  palaces,  temples,  treas- 
uries, the  crematory,  etc.,  which  belong  to  the 
province  of  a  private  journal. 

But  the  official  Durbar!  That  marvel  of  the 
eyes!  That  dazzling  exhibition  of  jewels!  That 
extraordinary  gathering  of  princes,  courtiers, 
priests,  and  soldiers!  That  is  what  seems  to  me 
interesting  to  relate  here,  while  I  strive  to  banish 
all  hyperbole  from  a  style  that  involuntarily — 
perhaps  contagiously? — becomes  filled  with  pomp. 

The  religious  festival.  .  .  . 

It  is  symbolic  and  unforgettable. 

It  is  in  a  white  patio  of  the  old  palace,  under  a 
dais  of  dark  blue  and  white — the  Kapurthalian 

1  See  in  my  romance  "Parvati,"  the  description  of  a  tiger-hunt,  with 
the  Maharajah  of  Jeypore. 


THE    GATEWAY    TO    THE    PALACE    OF    KAPURTHALA 


A   BRAH MANIC    RELIGIOUS    WEDDING 


AN  INDIAN  DURBAR  65 

colors.  The  priests  are  seated,  after  the  Oriental 
fashion,  on  a  thick  Persian  rug.  There  are  about 
twenty  of  them,  including  the  High  Priest  and 
the  astrologer,  who  will  soon  read  aloud  the  San- 
skrit horoscope  of  His  Highness.  Grave  and  im- 
movable, they  keep  their  eyes  fastened  upon  the 
altar,  which  is  composed  of  a  mosaic  in  tiny  dots 
of  white,  red  and  blue,  of  the  same  design  as  the 
pavement  of  the  patio,  and  figuring  in  its  squares 
of  equal  size  flowers,  triangles,  rosettes,  ovals  and 
the  sacred  lotus.  ...  A  stir  among  the  crowd  of 
privileged  persons  admitted  below  the  dais — the 
women  may  not  witness  the  ceremony  except  from 
high,  half-open  windows — a  stir  which  increases 
and  announces  the  approaching  arrival  of  the 
sovereign.  .  .  .  Then  a  herald,  followed  by  mace- 
bearers  and  guards  announces:  "His  Highness,  the 
Maharajah!" 

He  is  seated  now,  the  prince,  the  Prince  Charm- 
ing, whom  all  our  high  society  is  eager  for.  He  is 
seated  facing  the  High  Priest,  on  a  sofa  of  blue 
velvet,  with  golden  braid.  Three  of  his  sons  sur- 
round him:  at  his  right  the  Princes  Mahijit  and 
Amarjit,  already  as  serious  as  men;  at  the  left,  the 
young  Prince  Karamjit,  with  an  eager,  spiritual 
face — three  students  of  the  College  of  Normandy, 
at  Cleres.  The  Crown  Prince  Paranjit  is  now  in 


66  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

England,  where  he  is  finishing  his  studies  before 
his  marriage,  which  will  take  place  in  two  years. 
But  the  ceremony  is  beginning.  While  a  serv- 
ant, armed  with  a  white  horse-hair  fly-chaser, 
busily  waves  this  new  sort  of  fan,  the  priests  bring 
up  by  turns,  for  the  Maharajah  to  touch,  bread, 
rice,  sweetmeats,  roses,  as  a  sign  of  submission. 
Chanting  begins;  it  is  the  priest's  young  assistants 
who  are  celebrating  in  Sanskrit  the  praises  of  their 
prince  in  an  at  first  monotonous,  minor  strain, 
which  grows  faster  until  it  soon  turns  into  a  vol- 
uble recitation  of  litanies.  They  distribute  grains 
of  rice  among  us  so  that,  according  to  the  ancient 
custom,  we  may  throw  them  upon  our  amiable  and 
hospitable  host.  The  hail  of  rice  falls  abundantly 
upon  the  shoulders  of  His  Highness,  the  symbol  of 
our  gratitude  and  respect!  .  .  .  Follows  a  long 
discourse  by  the  High  Priest  and  the  performance 
of  several  rites,  in  which  rice,  flowers  and  salt  play 
an  important  role,  as  well  as  a  woolen  cord  of 
mingled  strands  of  red,  yellow  and  white,  the  signs 
of  honesty,  faithfulness  and  courage,  which  in  the 
olden  days  the  warriors  never  failed  to  fasten  as 
scarfs  across  their  breasts.  Now  the  astrologer  is 
drawing  the  horoscope  of  the  sovereign,  reading  a 
long  rigmarole,  of  which  I  can  grasp  only  the 
beautiful  characters  written  in  red  and  black  ink 


AN  INDIAN  DURBAR  67 

on    an    interminable    parchment    adorned    with 
cabalistic  figures  and  signs. 

Oh,  the  curious,  the  piquant  allegorical  custom 
which  follows  this  tiresome  listening!  The  Maha- 
rajah rises,  followed  by  his  suite,  and  seats  himself 
in  one  of  the  scales  of  a  wooden  balance,  which 
stands  in  one  of  the  corners  of  the  patio.  On  the 
other  are  black,  white,  green,  yellow,  red  and  gray 
sacks — containing  respectively  gold,  silver,  rice, 
grain,  perfumes  and  fruit — which  equal  the 
monarch  in  weight.  The  symbolic  weighing  is 
carefully  gone  through  seven  times — seven,  always 
seven,  the  fatal  number  which  appears  every- 
where!— then  the  scale  is  emptied  and  the  sacks  are 
given  to  the  poor.  The  king  has  ransomed  himself 
in  the  eyes  of  his  subjects.  They  bring  up  a  horse, 
then  a  cow,  both  covered  with  scarlet  saddle- 
cloths, decorated  with  green  and  gold.  They  are 
the  presents  of  His  Highness  to  the  poorest  among 
the  priests.  The  privileged  Brahman,  whose  turn 
it  is  now  to  bestow  princely  alms,  leaves  the  group 
of  his  fellow  priests,  half  prostrates  himself  before 
his  benefactor,  and  goes  out,  leading  the  animals 
himself.  The  ceremonies,  prayers,  and  chants  are 
ended.  All  the  ministers,  chamberlains,  courtiers, 
aides-de-camp  and  stewards  of  his  civil  household 
rush  confusedly  towards  the  Maharajah  and  bow 


68  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

low  before  him,  while  they  offer  him  a  piece  of 
money,  which  the  sovereign  merely  touches.  It  is 
the  Mo  hour  again,  the  symbol  of  submission  and 
feudal  tribute. 

The  native  music,  rendered  by  flutes,  clarinets, 
shrill  fifes  and  tom-toms,  bursts  into  a  particularly 
pleasing  harmony,  adorned  with  a  succession  of 
fifths  and  reversed  ninths,  which  would  enchant 
Stravinsky,  and  cause  the  shades  of  Bazin,  Gevaert 
and  Fetis  to  tremble  with  indignation.  Outside 
the  cannon  thunders.  And  also  we  hear  faintly  the 
blasts  of  the  military  trumpets.  The  crowd  of 
guests  files  slowly  out.  As  I  am  crossing  the 
threshold,  a  priest  presents  me  with  a  sacred  cake, 
rolled  up  in  a  dry  leaf,  while  another  Brahman 
dips  his  thumb  into  a  sort  of  yellow  pomade,  with 
a  basis  of  saffron,  and  places  it  at  the  top  of  my 
nose,  between  the  eyes,  according  to  the  rite  of 
Siva.  Then  I  notice  that  all  my  companions  wear 
the  same  sign.  During  the  whole  day  we  must 
preserve  this  tattooing,  which  brings  us  from  the 
Hindus  many  sympathetic  smiles. 

The  military  festival.  .  .  . 

A  resplendent  procession  of  uniforms  in  the  dust 
of  the  military  parade  grounds,  under  a  blazing 
sun,  in  the  midst  of  the  immense  gathering  of 


AN  INDIAN  DURBAR  69 

people  who  have  come  from  all  the  little  towns  in 
the  neighborhood  of  the  capital. 

A  great  uproar  rises  from  the  crowd,  anxiously 
bending  forward  to  admire  the  fine  carriage  of  the 
infantrymen,  the  martial  spirit  of  the  cavalry  and 
the  sang-froid  of  the  cannoneers,  grouped  about 
their  guns,  which  are  fastened  to  zebus.  The  ap- 
pearance of  this  Sikh  army  in  its  dark  uniforms  is 
really  superb,  this  army  whose  loyalty  served  the 
English  cause  so  faithfully  in  1857,  at  the  time  of 
the  Sepoy  rebellion,  in  1873  at  the  time  of  the  ex- 
pedition into  Afghanistan,  and  finally  from  1914- 
1918  on  the  European,  Asiatic  and  African  fields 
of  battle  during  the  World  War. 

It  files  past,  brave,  well-disciplined,  its  music 
at  its  head,  a  music  of  bugles,  Scotch  bagpipes  and 
tambourines,  before  its  chief,  the  Maharajah, 
dressed  very  simply,  without  any  decorations,  in 
a  black  dolman  with  a  velvet  collar,  mounted  on  a 
light  bay  Burmese  horse,  surrounded  by  his  aides- 
de-camp  and  the  officers  of  his  General  Staff.  The 
artillery  divides  into  three  portions  its  regulation 
salute  of  twenty-one  cannon  shots.  The  crackling 
of  rifles  splits  the  air:  it  is  the  infantrymen  who  are 
discharging  their  guns  with  joyous  "hurrahs  1"  in 
honor  of  His  Highness. 


70  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

The  social  festival.  .  .  . 

It  follows  the  feudal  ceremony  in  the  Palace  of 
Justice  where,  in  the  throne-room,  the  civil  and 
military  functionaries  solemnly  renew  their  protes- 
tations of  fealty  and  devotion  while,  in  the  Great 
Square,  the  royal  elephants,  caparisoned  with  rich 
howdahs  covered  with  saddle-cloths,  embroidered 
with  gold  and  precious  stones,  majestically  sway 
their  trunks  and  their  tusks  encircled  by  three 
golden  rings. 

I  hasten  to  add  that  it  is  an  Oriental  social  fete. 
A  delicate  attention  of  the  Maharajah  has  ordered 
all  his  court,  all  his  guests — except,  of  course,  his 
European  guests,  in  their  somber  and  banal  black 
—to  wear  the  national  costume  for  great  occasions : 
a  turban  set  with  rubies,  emeralds  and  pearls, 
tunics  and  dalmatics  of  satin,  velvet  and  iridescent 
brocades,  incomparably  embroidered.  There  is  an 
Indian  dinner:  burning  curries,  ragouts  of  young 
partridges,  bustards,  and  kids,  ices  of  curdled  milk, 
sprinkled  over  with  pistachio  nuts,  betel  leaves  and 
small  black  seeds,  of  a  spicy,  somewhat  camphor- 
ous  flavor,  the  whole  seasoned  with  popular  music 
of  the  most  fascinating  effect. 

And  then  the  dancing  girls.  The  Maharajah 
has  had  them  brought  expressly  from  Agra.  Their 
orchestra  of  viols  and  tom-toms  accompanies  them 


AN  INDIAN  DURBAR  71 

faintly.  They  dance,  they  sing.  Their  guttural 
voices  cry  out  the  lament  and  the  suffering  of  love, 
and  the  contortions  of  their  hands  reveal  the  sharp 
pain  of  self-abandonment.  For,  if  one  may  say 
so,  they  never  move.  It  is  a  mute  and  half-immo- 
bile choreography,  but  how  gripping  and  how 
expressive,  when  a  sudden  flame  lights  up  the 
enigmatic  shadows  of  their  dark  eyes  I 

And  I  think  of  the  strange  destiny  of  these 
Asiatic  ballerinas,  with  their  eyelids  smeared  with 
kohl,  who  come  before  me,  their  heads  covered 
with  pearls  and  their  bare  feet  with  rings,  so  dif- 
ferent from  the  dancing  girls  celebrated  by  our 
poets,  from  those  who  delighted  us  in  Lakme,  The 
King  of  Lahore,  The  Grand  Mogul.  With  them 
all  was  convention.  These,  on  the  contrary,  spring 
both  by  birth  and  their  artistic  profession  from  the 
hieratical  dancer,  and  by  their  habits  and  their 
private  lives  from  the  professional  prostitute. 
They  are  both  religious  and  symbolic.  They  in- 
carnate in  song  and  dance  the  fabulous  personages 
of  the  old  myths  of  the  primitive  theogony.  They 
are  adored  and  petted  by  the  people  and  the  Brah- 
mans  and  also  by  the  rajahs  because  they  are  por- 
trayers,  in  speech  and  action,  of  the  great  national 
epics,  the  ancient  dramas  of  the  Sanskrit  and  Aryan 
mythology.  Superior  by  far  to  the  indolent  and 


72  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

lascivious  odalisque  of  the  Levant,  they  are  equally 
superior  to  the  Nipponese  Geishas,  with  their 
laughing  eyes  and  little  mincing  gestures. 

That  bayadere  there!  Just  watch  her;  she 
knows  how  to  be  by  turns  amorous,  unhappy,  ironi- 
cal and  terrible.  Her  chanting  voice,  accompanied 
by  the  faint  tambourines  and  the  diverse  vinas, 
dear  to  the  soufis — "dying  viols"  that  gentle 
dreamer  Mallarme  would  have  called  them — a 
psalmody  now  high,  now  low,  full  of  mysterious, 
disturbing  and  far-away  melodies.  Singling  out 
one  of  the  spectators,  she  undulates  before  him, 
fascinates  him,  and  envelops  him  with  her  veiled 
song,  with  her  almost  motionless  posturing.  Pres- 
ently, without  any  transition,  she  upbraids  him,  she 
curses  him  and  then  implores  him,  adjures  him, 
with  the  desperate  wringing  of  her  hands  and 
wrists,  with  the  sobs  of  a  stifled  voice.  It  is  beauti- 
ful and  it  is  human,  because  she  vibrates,  laughs 
and  weeps.  Those  powerful  thinkers,  the  Hindus, 
have  realized  that  this  sort  of  woman,  the  national 
and  religious  aede,  ought  to  be  protected,  free, 
emancipated  and  venerated. 

Now  I  understand  why  the  great  potentates 
themselves  bow  down  before  this  power,  why  they 
pay  in  gold — as  much  as  three  or  four  thousand 


AN  INDIAN  DURBAR  73 

francs  for  an  evening — for  the  stirring  pantomime 
of  these  courtesan  dancers.  .  .  . 

It  is  because  they  seem  to  be  what  they  are  in 
reality,  the  superhuman  invokers  of  love  and 
death. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


BETROTHAL  UNDER  THE  LAW  OF  MANU 

Two  years  later — Nostalgia  for  India — I  find  in  the  heart  of 
the  Punjab  the  "upper  crust"  of  the  Faubourg — The  ex- 
position of  gifts — An  invisible  bride — In  which  the  Law 
of  Manu  shows  itself  less  and  less  .  .  .  gallant ! 

WO  years  have  gone  by. 

And  now,  once  more  India,  which 
I  have  already  surveyec}  once,  from 
North  to  South  and  East  to  West, 
calls  me.  .  .  .  Irresistibly  1 

How  can  I  escape  from  this  fas- 
cination? Rereading  my  notes,  one  idle  evening, 
I  have  felt  my  soul  filled  with  vague  longings.  Oh ! 
to  see  again  that  country,  those  landscapes,  those 
colors,  that  harmonious  light  which  magnifies  and 
defies  the  dullest  gray!  And  then  my  book  to  be 
completed;  so  many  gaps  to  be  filled  in,  so  many 
investigations  to  be  continued,  so  many  documents 
to  be  examined,  verified,  fathomed. 

Come,  the  die  is  cast,  Kapurthala  shall  see  me 

74 


UNDER  THE  LAW  OF  MANU          75 

again;  once  more  I  shall  taste  the  exquisite  hos- 
pitality of  its  Parisian  rajah. 

A  rajah  who  is  indeed  Parisian,  for  who  can 
boast  of  being  more  so  than  this  Amphitrion  whom 
no  nuance  of  our  language  or  thought  escapes, 
who  has  carried  his  love  of  France  so  far  as  for 
six  years  to  confide  his  future  daughter-in-law  and 
Crown  Princess  to  the  care  of  such  French  friends 
as  the  Princess  Amedee  de  Broglie,  the  Countess 
Rostaing  de  Pracomtal,  the  Dowager  Princess  de 
la  Tour  d'Auvergne,  the  Countess  Gaston  de  Mon- 
tesquiou-Fezensac,  the  Countess  du  Bourg  de 
Bozas  and  many  others  of  the  great  ones  of  our 
aristocracy,  women  with  a  full  sense  of  their  duty 
as  well  as  elegant  and  envied  women  of  the  world? 

It  is  not  astonishing,  therefore,  that  a  sovereign 
so  modern  and  so  much  in  love  with  our  taste  and 
our  art  should  wish  all  his  French  friends  to  be 
present  at  the  celebration  of  the  marriage  of  his 
eldest  son,  the  Tikka-Sahib,  Paranjit  Singh,  who 
has  just  returned  from  London,  and  the  very  young 
and  charming  Princess  Brindahmati  of  Jubbal, 
whose  ancestors,  of  an  illustrious  Rajput  caste,  lost 
in  the  darkness  of  ages,  go  back,  they  say,  to  the 
sun  as  their  progenitor. 

Indeed,  they  have  all  come,  these  French 
friends,  breaking  their  usual  home-keeping  habits, 


76  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

leaving  Paris,  Egypt,  the  Cote  d'Azur,  to  cross 
oceans  and  the  tropics.  Let  us  give  their  names 
without  exception,  for  they  are  examples  of  quick 
decision  and  the  love  of  adventure:  Prince  An- 
toine  of  Orleans  and  Braganza,  Prince  and  Prin- 
cess Amedee  de  Broglie,  Prince  Albert  de  Brog- 
lie,  the  Marquis  and  Marquise  de  Pothuau,  Gen- 
eral Baron  de  Sancy,  Comtesse  de  Pracomtal, 
Marquis  Pierre  de  Jaucourt,  Baron  Alexandre  de 
Neufville,  Comtes  Charles  and  Jean  de  Polignac, 
Mme.  Vlasto,  Vicomte  de  Jumilhac,  M.  Andre 
de  Fouquieres,  Comte  and  Comtesse  de  la  Met- 
trie,  Vicomte  Jean  de  Brecey,  Comtesse  and  Mile, 
de  Failly,  M.  Rene  des  Cheises,  Comte  Alphonse 
de  Fleurieu,  Vicomte  de  Geoffre  de  Chabrignac, 
M.  Georges  Brocheton,  Vicomte  Gontran  de  Bar- 
bentane,  Comte  de  Charnieres,  M.  and  Mme. 
Alexandre  Marcel,  Comte  de  Buyer-Chaillot,  M. 
Andres  Lataillade,  Vicomte  de  la  Motte,  M. 
Zafiri,  M.  Saures.  On  the  English  side,  I  remem- 
ber the  names  of  Generals  Drummond  and  Powell, 
Lady  Sassoon,  Colonel  and  Miss  Shackleton,  the 
Governor  of  the  Punjab,  the  Hon.  W.  Sykes,  etc. 
.  .  .  Finally,  on  the  Hindu  and  Mussulman  side, 
let  us  name  H.  H.  the  Maharajah  of  Jammu  and 
Kashmir,  who  has  come  with  an  escort  of  officers, 
chamberlains,  a  hundred  servants,  followed  by  his 


UNDER  THE  LAW  OF  MANU          77 

favorite  elephants,  his  horses,  his  camels,  and  his 
coaches;  H.  H.  the  Maharajah  of  Jhalawar,  with 
his  fabulous  jewels — diamonds,  emeralds,  rubies — 
accompanied  by  his  uncle,  Bal-Bahr  Singh;  Their 
Highnesses  the  Rajahs  of  Poonch,  Djagraon,  Nar- 
pur,  with  glittering  aigrettes  and  their  motley 
suites  of  officials  and  retainers;  H.  H..  the  Aga- 
Khan,  the  first  Nabob  of  India,  the  highest  Mus- 
sulman personage  of  Asia,  the  direct  descendant 
of  Ali,  the  son-in-law  of  the  Prophet — a  Parisian 
also,  at  this  time  thirty-three  years  of  age,  any- 
thing but  a  fanatic,  who  adores  France  and  the 
French;  other  princes  whose  names  and  places  of 
origin  I  do  not  know  but  who  are  there  among  us 
and  offer,  beside  our  persons,  villainously  dressed 
in  European  style,  the  regrettable  contrast  of  silk 
with  wool. 

A  great  Hindu  marriage  is  no  ordinary  event. 
It  is  an  occasion  for  dazzling  fetes,  unprecedented 
festivities,  wild  prodigalities  and  Rabelaisian 
feasts.  It  is  the  correct  thing  to  ruin,  or  almost 
ruin,  oneself.  The  "Paraitre"  of  my  intelligent 
and  penetrating  cousin,  Maurice  Donnay,  finds 
here  its  completest  and  most  exact  application. 
One  must  spend,  one  must  even  squander;  tomor- 
row will  do  for  serious  business  and  domestic 
economy!  This  does  not  extend  to  the  guests 


78  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

themselves  who  only  watch  what  is  going  on  and 
merely  add  their  friendly  or  sumptuous  contribu- 
tions to  the  mad  luxury  that  obtains  among  the 
wedding  gifts. 

They  do  not  consist,  these  wedding  gifts,  as  they 
do  with  us,  of  modest  cases  of  jewels,  silver,  lace, 
furs,  pianos,  automobiles,  etc.  .  .  .  The  Hindu 
wedding  boasts  of  more  royal  presents.  Would 
you  care  to  know,  for  example,  what  was  the  wed- 
ding gift  of  His  Highness  the  Maharajah  of  Kash- 
mir to  the  young  couple  of  Kapurthala?  An  ele- 
phant, six  horses,  fifteen  thousand  rupees.  The 
other  princes,  less  rich  than  he,  contented  them- 
selves with  offering  the  betrothed:  one,  three 
camels,  two  horses,  a  dozen  falcons ;  another,  some 
Bokhara  rugs,  a  collar  of  pearls,  draperies  em- 
broidered with  gold;  others  made  their  appear- 
ance preceded  by  a  herald  bearing  sacks  of  pre- 
cious stones  in  their  matrix,  or  rough-hewn  nug- 
gets of  gold.  The  exhibition  of  the  gifts  takes 
place,  as  in  France,  a  few  days  before  the  marriage 
ceremony,  but  in  the  morning,  from  ten  o'clock 
till  noon,  in  a  special  room,  guarded  by  two  armed 
attendants.  The  groom,  who  alone  is  visible  be- 
fore the  day  of  the  marriage — the  young  girl  being 
strictly  secluded  in  the  zenana  of  the  ranees — does 
the  honors  generally  of  the  inspection  of  the  gifts, 


UNDER  THE  LAW  OF  MANU          79 

many  of  which  are  reserved  for  him  personally: 
arms,  jewels,  saddles,  tennis  rackets,  polo  sticks, 
etc. 

There  is  something  melancholy  and  saddening 
in  the  persistent  and  mysterious  absence  of  the 
bride,  who  ought  to  be  the  queen,  feted,  petted, 
complimented,  of  all  these  festivities.  But  the 
Hindu  wedding  custom  permits  no  relaxation  of 
this  stringent  system.  Even  if,  like  the  Princess 
Brinda  of  Jubbal,  the  bride  were  strongly  imbued 
with  European  civilization,  this  preventive  seques- 
tration would  none  the  less  take  place.  It  is,  in  a 
sense,  a  preparatory  novenna  which  she  accom- 
plishes now.  Surrounded  by  the  dowager  queen, 
that  is  to  say  by  the  maharanee,  the  other  ranees 
and  their  intimates,  she  trains  herself  and  accus- 
toms herself  in  advance  to  the  double  role  of  sove- 
reign and  wife  which  must  soon  be  hers.  The 
priests  visit  her  and  instruct  her  thoroughly  in  her 
duties — there  is  no  question  of  her  rights,  which 
do  not  exist — and  in  certain  obligations  which  the 
Law  of  Manu  imposes  on  her. 

This  Law  of  Manu,  of  which  I  have  already 
spoken  but  to  which  I  must  return,  enacts,  in  re- 
gard to  marriage,  certain  engaging,  curious  and 
yet  poetic  rules  which,  however,  when  taken  to- 
gether, reveal  to  us  in  what  a  condition  of  depend- 


8o  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

ence,  of  absolute  servitude,  even  if  mingled  with 
respect,  the  Hindu  wife  has  to  be  held.  Finally, 
there  are  certain  deliciously  na'ive  counsels  it  gives, 
this  Law  of  Manu,  to  those  who  are  possessed  by 
the  legitimate  desire  to  contract  upright  marriages. 
I  cannot  resist  the  amusement  of  quoting  a  few  of 
them: 

"Let  him  who  wishes  to  marry  not  espouse  a 
girl  having  red  hair,  or  one  limb  too  many  (?), 
or  who  is  often  ill,  or  who  is  insupportable  by 
virtue  of  her  loquacity.  But  let  him  take  a  well- 
formed  woman,  who  has  the  graceful  gait  of  a 
swan  or  a  young  elephant  (!)  and  whose  hair  is 
fine,  her  teeth  small,  her  limbs  of  a  pleasurable 
softness." 

The  legislator  seems  to  have,  perhaps  from  ex- 
perience, an  opinion  of  conjugal  fidelity  that  is 
rather  bitter  and  tarnished  with  skepticism: 

"Even  when  shut  in  their  apartments,  under 
the  guard  of  faithful  and  devoted  men,  women 
are  by  no  means  in  surety;  those  only  are  so  who 
guard  themselves  from  their  own  will.  Because 
of  their  passion  for  men,  the  inconstancy  of  their 
temper,  and  the  lack  of  affection  which  is  natural 
to  them,  it  is  in  vain,  here  below,  to  guard  them 
with  vigilance;  they  will  always  be  exposed  to 
infidelity  to  their  husbands." 


UNDER  THE  LAW  OF  MANU          81 

"It  is  true  that  Manu  has  apportioned  to  women 
the  love  of  pleasure  and  dress,  concupiscence, 
anger,  evil  ways,  the  desire  to  do  ill  and  per- 
versity." 

In  what  gallant  terms  these  things  are  saidl  In 
the  same  way,  the  "Law  for  Men",  according  to 
Hervieu,  is  not  embarrassed,  in  India,  by  all  the 
hypocritical  prolegomena  of  our  Occidental  di- 
vorces and  separations.  Has  a  woman  ceased  to 
please  her  husband?  The  latter  does  not  need 
to  have  recourse  to  an  extra-judicial  examination 
or  the  proceedings  of  an  attorney.  A  thorough 
repudiation,  made  before  the  Brahman,  takes  the 
place  of  the  official  proceedings  of  non-reconcilia- 
tion, constituting  ipso  facto  the  divorce.  As  for 
the  pretext  for  invoking  it,  on  the  part  of  the  hus- 
band, the  very  eclectic  Law  of  Manu  furnishes 
him  with  a  veritable  assortment:  he  has  only  to 
choose  among  them  according  to  his  good  pleas- 
ure, merely  taking  account  of  the  circumstances 
of  time  and  place. 

"A  sterile  woman,"  declares  the  Law  of  Manu, 
"may  be  replaced  at  the  end  of  eight  years;  one 
whose  children  are  all  dead,  in  the  tenth  year; 
one  who  has  brought  into  the  world  only  daugh- 
ters (a  stigma  of  inferiority)  in  the  eleventh  year; 
one  who  speaks  sharply,  at  once. 


82  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

"During  one  whole  year,  let  a  husband  endure 
the  aversion  of  his  wife.  But  after  one  year,  if 
she  continues  to  hate  him,  let  him  take  what  prop- 

• 

erty  belongs  to  her,  leaving  her  sufficient  to  sub- 
sist and  clothe  herself,  and  let  him  cease  to  live 
with  her." 

All  these  arrangements,  all  these  paragraphs — 
of  which  I  quote  only  the  principal,  the  most  sa- 
lient ones — constitute  the  written  law  of  marriage, 
the  law  applied  to  the  letter,  without  restriction; 
no  tempering  of  mildness  or  gentleness  has  en- 
croached upon  this  assemblage  of  pitiless  and 
meddling  rules.  The  woman,  on  the  day  of  her 
marriage,  must  walk,  not  beside  her  husband,  but 
behind  him,  like  a  slave.  It  would  be  unseemly 
for  her  to  be  larger  than  her  husband  or  for  her 
head  to  be  taller  than  his,  the  symbol  of  a  future 
emancipation  that  would  not  be  tolerated.  Thus 
the  "fashion"  is  for  small  brides,  with  smoothly 
combed  hair  held  apart  with  fillets  and  naked  feet 
— perish  our  Louis  XIV  heels! — such  that  the 
smallest  husband  will  not  be  thrown  into  the  shade. 
In  Southern  India — the  coasts  of  Coromandel  and 
Malabar — the  wife  is  obliged,  as  a  sign  of  submis- 
sion, to  place  her  foot  over  the  real  or  imaginary 
print  of  each  of  her  husband's  footsteps;  it  would 


UNDER  THE  LAW  OF  MANU          83 

be  an  excuse  for  the  rupture  of  the  marriage  if 
this  rule  were  not  observed. 

Such  are  the  auspices  under  which  the  woman 
falls  into  the  power  of  her  husband.  I  have  not 
deliberately  blackened  a  picture  already  somber; 
but  it  is  incontestable — and  I  believe  uncontested 
—that  of  all  married  women,  even  the  "disen- 
chanted" Mohammedans,  the  Hindu  is  the  most 
wretched  and  degraded.  One  of  my  friends,  a 
Brahman  of  an  ancient  caste,  who  speaks  and 
understands  our  language  like  a  Loti  or  an  Ana- 
tole  France,  has  tried  to  explain  to  me,  with  the 
aid  of  an  ingenious  paradox,  the  reasons  for  this 
discreditable  treatment  of  beings  who  are,  in  gen- 
eral, beautiful,  gentle  and  virtuous.  In  his  opin- 
ion, the  Hindu  wife  is  shut  up  and  kept  under 
this  iron  discipline  through  a  spirit  of  respect  on 
the  part  of  the  men,  and  notably  of  those  who 
drew  up  the  law  concerning  their  way  of  life. 
The  law-giver  had  considered — and  with  him  all 
the  Brahmans,  the  masters,  the  later  initiates  of 
the  esoteric  doctrine — that  woman,  because  of  the 
beauty  and  grandeur  of  her  function,  should  be  in 
some  manner  isolated,  shut  up,  cloistered  in  a 
tower  of  ivory.  Her  mission,  to  procreate  and 
raise  up  future  generations,  placed  her  above  all 
contact  and  all  profane  contamination.  Let  us 


84  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

admit  the  sophistry.  It  is  in  order  to  be  highly 
esteemed,  then,  too  sacrosanct,  that  the  unfortunate 
woman  today  submits  to  be  no  longer  human  and 
to  lead  in  the  obscure  emptiness  of  the  zenana  the 
stupidest  and  most  degrading  of  existences. 

Many  maharajahs,  refined,  converted  and  mod- 
ernized by  our  European  customs,  by  their  jour- 
neys to  London  or  Paris  as  well  as  by  their  early 
instruction  and  their  reading,  have  had  the  courage 
to  affirm  themselves  reformers.  Unfortunately, 
the  movement  as  a  whole  has  been  only  on  the 
surface;  the  evolution  will  be  slow.  There  are 
still  so  many  of  these  princes  who  are  barbarous, 
backward,  retrograde,  orthodox  Hindus  and  se- 
cretly haters  of  everything  foreign!  Therefore 
one  must  admire  without  reserve  those  who,  in 
spite  of  the  obstruction  of  their  priests  or  their 
ministers,  strive  to  raise  the  condition  of  women 
in  their  States.  That  there  exist,  as  in  Baroda, 
schools  for  girls,  or  that  they  give  their  Crown 
Princess,  as  in  Kapurthala,  six  years  of  instruc- 
tion in  Europe — the  impulse  remains  beautiful 
and  appears  significant.  One  must  not  wish  things 
to  go  too  quickly  in  India.  The  ages  have  created 
feminine  servitude;  it  cannot  be  abolished  in  a 
couple  of  years. 

Evolution  is  not  revolution. 


CHAPTER  IX 


THE  SIKH  SEHRABANDI 

Like  father,  hke  son — The  Sehra,  or  taking  of  the  masculine 
veil — An  orgy  of  silk,  velvet  and  gems — The  Maharajah 
of  Kashmir  encircles  with  his  hands  the  forehead  of  the 
groom — Again  the  Mohour! 


ET  us  take  as  an  example  of  what  I 
have  just  written  the  marriage  of 
the  Crown  Prince  (in  Hindustani, 
Tikka-Sahib)  of  the  Sikh  State  of 
Kapurthala,  in  the  Punjab.  I  have 
already  said  that  this  prince — who 
is  infinitely  gracious  and  sympathetic — had,  with 
his  three  brothers  Mahijit,  Amarjit  and  Karamjit, 
been  brought  up  in  France  and  England.  I  will 
add  that  he  knows  our  language  and  speaks  it  flu- 
ently, that  the  college  of  Normandy,  at  Cleres,  and 
the  Lycee  Janson  at  Sailly,  have  taught  him  to 
know  and  love  the  great  names  of  our  literary  his- 
tory, while  his  eye  grew  familiar  with  their  busts, 
ranged  along  the  fagade  of  this  latter  institution 
of  learning.  It  may  be  said  of  him  that  he  is  al- 

85 


86  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

most  a  European,  and  very  much  attached  by  his 
tastes,  his  natural  inclinations,  and  his  earliest  edu- 
cation to  this  modern  life,  the  advantages  and 
charms  of  which  have  been  revealed  to  him  by 
his  father. 

Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  this  undeniably  Occi- 
dental education,  H.  H.  Paranjit  Singh  was 
obliged  to  marry  in  the  Hindu  fashion  the  fiancee 
he  had  chosen  freely,  by  whose  side  he  had  played 
and  grown  up  in  Europe,  who  was  his  childhood's 
friend  in  London  and  Paris.  The  same  rites  and 
the  same  ceremonial,  the  same  sequestration  of  the 
bride  during  the  days  preceding  her  wedding,  the 
same  observance  of  the  horoscopes  and  the  same 
childishly  symbolical,  coarse  and  at  times  repul- 
sive practices.  But  let  us  not  anticipate;  before 
giving  as  detailed  an  account  as  possible  of  the 
Hindu  ceremony,  let  me  say  a  word  of  the  curious 
betrothal  custom,  in  which  the  groom  alone  takes 
part,  which  bears  the  name  of  the  Sehrabandi. 

The  Sehrabandi  consists,  properly  speaking,  of 
a  taking  of  the  veil  on  the  part  of  the  groom.  It 
is  an  actual  taking  of  the  veil  which,  among  the 
higher  castes,  is  transformed  into  the  placing  on 
the  groom's  head  of  a  golden  fillet,  from  which 
hang  many  strings  of  pearls.  This  temporary  con- 
jugal head-dress  is  called  the  Sehrah.  The  honor 


THE  SIKH  SEHRABANDI  87 

of  placing  it  on  the  head  of  the  future  husband 
belongs  to  the  noblest  among  the  guests.  At  Ka- 
purthala,  it  was  the  Maharajah  of  Kashmir  who, 
with  his  own  hands,  encircled  the  forehead  of  the 
Tikka  and  showed  him  in  this  way  the  high  esteem 
and  consideration  in  which  he  held  him. 

The  people  are  out,  massed  in  dense  crowds 
about  the  palace  where  the  priests,  the  ministers 
of  the  court  and  the  guests  await  the  arrival  of 
the  procession.  On  the  square  rises  the  noble  and 
proud  esquestrian  statue  of  the  Maharajah  Rand- 
hir  Singh  Bahadur,  the  grandfather  of  the  present 
sovereign,  which  is  surrounded  by  the  thirty-two 
royal  elephants,  covered  with  their  vivid  saddle- 
cloths, decorated  with  gold  braid,  silver  bells  and 
precious  stones.  It  has  been  no  easy  matter  to 
range  in  line  these  colossal  animals  in  the  midst 
of  the  dense  crowds,  but  the  Mahouts  (elephant 
drivers)  are  no  novices,  and  they  excel  in  directing 
the  formidable  pachyderms,  without  troubling 
either  about  the  small  boys,  who  dart  under  their 
feet,  or  the  horses,  most  of  which  rear  up  in  terror. 
Opposite  the  statue,  an  interminable  cordon  of 
troops  spreads  out  its  dark  blue  line,  flanked  on 
right  and  left  by  the  Sikh  lancers  and  the  cavalry 
of  the  guard.  The  cannon  thunder  in  the  distance. 
Then  His  Highness'  band  strikes  up  the  Kapur- 


88  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

thalian  national  air,  a  sort  of  religious  hymn,  very 
simple,  very  short  and  rather  melancholy. 

And  now  there  is  the  procession  of  uniforms, 
of  marvelous  costumes  studded  with  diamonds  and 
— let  us  not  forget  them  also — elegant  Parisian 
toilets.  All  this  heterogeneous  fashion  of  Europe 
and  Asia  is  swallowed  up  under  the  portal,  in  the 
train  of  the  maharajahs  and  princes.  Each  one 
takes  his  place  among  the  seats  reserved  in  the 
galleries  or  below  the  dais  in  the  immense  throne- 
room.  The  ceremony  opens  with  a  long  address 
by  the  priests ;  then  there  are  addresses  of  welcome 
pronounced  by  the  Dewan  (the  prime  minister) 
and  by  an  important  municipal  delegation  pre- 
sided over  by  the  Sahib  Devindar  Dass,  the  mayor 
of  the  capital.  The  first  of  the  bayaderes,  a  star 
from  Calcutta,  who  has  been  brought  at  a  great 
price,  and  whose  head  is  weighted  down  with 
pearls  and  rubies,  then  advances,  her  palms  up, 
her  head  slightly  bent,  in  an  almost  hieratic  atti- 
tude. She  recites,  sings,  dances  and  gives  in  panto- 
mime a  compliment  suitable  to  the  occasion;  her 
voice,  slightly  nasal  and  monotonous,  predicts  an 
era  of  joy,  of  long  life  and  prosperity  for  the  young 
couple  (observe  that  the  bride  is  still  absent).  A 
small,  unobtrusive  orchestra  of  subdued  viols  and 
tom-toms  beats  time  to  her  slow  and  undulating 


THE  SIKH  SEHRABANDI  89 

dancing  and  follows  her,  step  by  step,  but  always 
at  a  respectful  distance. 

The  dancing  girl  has  finished  her  chant  in  its 
minor  key — a  chant  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  re- 
sembles a  funeral  dirge  more  than  a  song  of  hap- 
piness— and  she  slowly  makes  her  way  out,  by  one 
of  the  lower  exits  of  the  room,  still  accompanied 
by  her  musicians,  and  very  conscious  of  the  "favor" 
she  has  been  willing  to  do  the  assembly  in  holding 
them  under  the  charm  of  her  art. 

Then  the  Maharajah  of  Kashmir  arises  from  his 
throne,  takes  the  Sehrah  from  a  little  box  offered 
him  by  an  attendant  and  fastens  it  about  the  fore- 
head of  the  young  prince  who,  with  a  smile  of 
assent,  lends  himself,  with  the  best  grace  in  the 
world,  to  this  strange  and  most  symbolic  perform- 
ance. Is  he  not  quite  familiar  with  the  meaning 
of  this  allegory?  He  knows  that  this  veil  of  pearls 
— which  falls  over  his  face,  obscures  his  sight,  and 
sometimes  strikes  the  nose,  the  chin,  the  lips — is 
the  sign  of  his  betrothal  with  the  fiancee  whom 
no  one  sees  and  represents  the  interdiction  which 
henceforth  lies  upon  him  to  cast  his  eyes  on  any 
other  woman  than  her  whom  he  has  chosen.  I 
like  the  symbol.  .  .  . 

But  look  now,  servants  in  the  livery  of  the  mon- 
arch bring  to  the  feet  of  the  Tikka  several  sacks 


90  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

which  give  out  a  silvery  sound.  It  is  the  Mohour, 
the  feudal  homage  of  the  municipalities  of  which 
I  have  already  spoken.  At  this  signal,  a  crowd 
of  courtiers  and  notables  rise  and  then  come  back, 
their  hands  loaded  with  presents,  ornaments, 
jewels,  garments,  stuffs,  arms,  trappings,  etc., 
which  they  place,  with  a  reverence,  in  the  hands 
of  two  royal  ushers.  These  offerings  constitute, 
on  the  part  of  the  donors,  a  gage  of  vassalage  and 
fealty  to  their  future  sovereign.  As  we  see,  the 
Sehrabandi  of  a  prince  is  not  only  the  presentation 
of  the  groom  to  the  nation,  it  is  also  an  official 
recognition  of  his  eventual  succession  to  the  throne. 

Their  Highnesses  rise.  The  music  again  strikes 
up  the  national  hymn.  The  betrothal  ceremony 
is  ended. 

Motor  cars,  coaches,  gala  vehicles  carry  us 
across  the  city,  decked  with  Kapurthalian  flags  and 
the  Franco-British  standards,  to  the  pretty  little 
tents  of  our  European  encampment. 


CHAPTER  X 


THE  WEDDING  AT  KAPURTHALA 

Festivals  and  banquets — I  win  the  elephant  race — The  French 
toast  of  our  host — A  madigral  to  the  ladies  of  the  French 
aristocracy — A  broken  glass  a  good  omen — The  Brahmanic 
ceremony  and  the  Sikh  rites — A  procession  from  the  Thou- 
sand and  One  Nights. 

S  was  suitable  for  a  reigning  prince, 
the  Maharajah  had  been  deter- 
mined to  have  everything  well  done, 
not  so  much  from  the  desire  to  daz- 
zle his  guests  as  from  the  purely 
friendly  anxiety  to  assure  them  as 
much  comfort  as  possible  in  their  "camping  out." 
To  this  end,  he  had  long  in  advance  divided  up 
and  parceled  out  a  large  section  of  his  park  into 
even  blocks,  cut  by  central  avenues  and  adjoining 
streets.  Vast  tents,  about  a  hundred  of  them,  had 
been  specially  set  up  as  apartments,  carpeted  and 
decorated,  with  brick  chimneys  and  electric  lights, 
each  consisting  of  three  rooms  and  a  bath.  Each 
one  of  these  tents,  moreover,  waited  on  by  three 

9' 


92  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

servants  and  an  orderly,  bore  a  number  and  the 
printed  name  of  its  single  occupant.  A  curious 
and  picturesque  spectacle,  indeed,  that  of  these 
three  encampments  (Hindu,  Mussulman,  Euro- 
pean), offering  to  the  eye,  from  the  high  terraces 
of  the  French  Palace,  the  suggestion  of  a  new 
town  risen  from  the  earth  like  the  cities  of  Alaska 
and  stretching,  all  white,  from  the  sunrise  to  the 
sunset. 

From  daybreak  on,  during  these  four  days  of 
enjoyment  and  in  spite  of  the  sharp  cold  which 
benumbed  the  fingers  and  covered  the  grass  with 
white  frost,  cavaliers  and  amazons — Comte  and 
Comtesse  de  la  Mettrie,  Vicomte  Jean  de  Brecey, 
Comte  Charles  de  Polignac,  Vicomte  de  Geoffre 
de  Chabrignac — had  their  mounts  pawing  the 
ground  before  their  tents  and  set  off  gaily,  intrep- 
idly, "a  la  franchise"  to  explore  the  surroundings 
of  the  capital,  plain  or  jungle,  shady  lanes  or  bare 
paths,  or  to  breathe  the  regenerating  air  of  the 
morning.  Others  gave  themselves  up  to  photog- 
raphy, to  sports  which  make  the  soul  freer  and  the 
body  more  joyful,  tennis,  pigeon-shooting,  bad- 
minton, etc.  Each  day,  I  should  say  each  hour, 
brought  a  new  distraction,  a  fresh  attraction,  an 
unexpected  surprise. 

Shall  I  speak  of  the  interest  which  from  the 


THE  WEDDING  AT  KAPURTHALA     93 

very  first  day  I  felt  in  the  Hindu  gymkhana? 
Feats  of  fakirs,  fantastic  performances  by  acrobats 
who  walked  on  a  tight-rope,  carrying  two  donkeys 
tied  together  over  their  shoulders;  fights  between 
rams,  which  dashed  their  horned  foreheads  and 
their  resounding  skulls  together  like  catapults, 
fights  between  cocks  and  quails,  which  ruffled  up 
their  crests  and  feathers,  while  they  picked  out 
with  ferocious  eye  the  spot  in  which  they  should 
strike  the  adversary  a  mortal  blow;  leaps  of  ath- 
letes to  the  back  of  one  or  several  elephants ;  comic 
pantomimes  or  fantastic  mock  battles.  And  the 
military  garden-party,  on  the  last  day!  The  ex- 
ercises by  turbaned  gymnasts  of  divers  colors, 
whose  twistings  and  intercrossings  made  me  think 
of  the  linear  designs  executed  by  the  sokols  of 
Prague,  the  charge  of  the  lancers,  the  camel  races, 
the  elephant  races — in  which  I  had  the  honor,  or 
the  good  luck,  to  be  more  exact,  to  come  out  first, 
distancing  by  the  length  of  an  elephant  my  friend 
Albert  de  Broglie,  second,  and  Andre  de  Fou- 
quieres,  third. 

I  should  seem  thankless  if  I  passed  over  in  si- 
lence the  automobile  excursions,  the  hunts  with 
falcon  and  greyhound,  the  princely  display  of 
fireworks  (which  lasted  three-quarters  of  an  hour 
and  included  several  set  pieces),  the  illuminations, 


94  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

the  dances  of  the  bayaderes,  a  European  ball  fol- 
lowed by  a  cotillion  led  by  our  countryman  Fou- 
quieres  and  Mile.  Arlette  de  Failly;  finally  the 
delicious  and  Gargantuan  banquet  of  three  hun- 
dred covers,  served  in  the  hall  of  the  Durbar,  in 
the  course  of  which  the  Maharajah,  after  an  im- 
pressive speech  in  English,  pronounced  in  our 
language,  and  without  the  least  accent,  the  delicate 
toast  which  follows: 

"Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  I  do  not  wish  to  miss 
the  opportunity  of  telling  you  of  the  great  pleas- 
ure it  gives  me  today  to  receive  my  good  friends 
from  France,  who  have  taken  the  trouble  to  come 
so  far,  especially  in  order  to  be  present  at  the  mar- 
riage of  my  son.  I  have  endeavored  to  assure  them 
a  hospitality  as  comfortable  as  possible,  and  I  hope 
they  may  carry  away  from  their  sojourn  in  my 
States  a  pleasant  and  lasting  memory. 

"You  all  know  what  a  profound  friendship  I 
feel  for  your  beautiful  country,  for  its  glories,  its 
artists,  its  scholars,  for  everything  that  constitutes 
the  patrimony  and  the  genius  of  your  race.  Varied 
and  somewhat  complex  sentiments,  but  which  give 
a  fairly  exact  idea  of  the  pleasure  I  feel  each  time 
I  return  to  Paris  and  have  the  agreeable  opportu- 
nity of  meeting  you  there  again. 

"I  am  particularly  sensible  of  the  coming  among 


THE  WEDDING  AT  KAPURTHALA     95 

us  of  His  Royal  and  Imperial  Highness,  Prince 
Antoine  of  Orleans  and  Braganza,  whose  two 
brothers,  the  Princes  Pierre  and  Louis,  have  al- 
ready been  my  guests,  a  few  years  ago.  Equally, 
I  salute  the  presence  at  Kapurthala  of  Prince  and 
Princess  Amedee  de  Broglie,  who  also  visited  me 
twelve  years  ago,  and  who  have  this  time  given 
me  the  pleasure  of  bringing  with  them  their  son, 
Prince  Albert.  I  am  infinitely  touched  by  the 
friendship  which  Princess  Amedee  de  Broglie 
never  ceases  to  show  me,  and  also  by  the  kindly 
interest  she  bears  for  my  daughter-in-law,  to  whom 
she  has  been  to  this  day  the  wise  counselor  and 
truest  friend.  I  can  promise  that  the  young  bride 
will  never  forget  all  the  attention  with  which  she 
has  been  showered  in  France,  and  especially  by 
the  Princess  de  Broglie,  at  the  Chateau  de  Chau- 
mont  as  well  as  in  Paris. 

"There  is  another  friend  of  the  Crown  Princess 
whom  I  am  anxious  to  thank  quite  particularly 
this  evening;  that  is  the  Countess  Rostaing  de 
Pracomtal,  who  has  been  for  my  daughter-in-law 
a  second  mother  as  well  as  an  admirable  instructor. 
Better  than  anyone  else,  this  great  lady  of  your 
aristocracy  has  been  able  to  inculcate  in  the  young 
bride  the  precious  elements  of  this  modern  Euro- 


96  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

pean  education,  of  which  I  wished  the  wife  of  my 
son  to  enjoy  the  experience. 

"The  benefits  of  this  innovation  belong  to  the 
future.  So  far  as  concerns  myself,  I  have  no  reason 
for  lack  of  confidence  in  this  new  method — with- 
out doubt,  more  of  the  world,  more  refined  than 
ours — and  I  foresee,  for  our  Indian  daughters,  a 
pure  and  definite  alliance  of  the  grace  of  the  Occi- 
dent with  the  modesty  of  the  Orient!" 

Is  it  necessary  to  add  that  this  charming  little 
discourse,  spoken  all  in  one  breath,  as  it  were,  and 
without  the  least  hesitation,  aroused  from  the 
thirty  or  more  French  guests  a  veritable  tumult 
of  applause?  Thereupon  Prince  Amedee  de 
Broglie,  whom  death  has  since  taken  from  my 
deferential  sympathy,  arose  and,  in  a  few  well- 
chosen  words,  expressed  to  the  monarch  the  senti- 
ments of  lively  gratitude  and  respectful  friendship 
of  all  his  compatriots.  Then  Andre  de  Fouquieres, 
in  a  warm  and  charming  impromptu,  constituted 
himself  the  bearer  of  the  good  wishes,  to  the  young 
couple,  of  all  the  youth  of  France.  "It  is,"  he  said 
in  closing,  "the  custom  to  see  an  omen  of  happiness 
in  the  breaking  of  a  glass  on  the  wedding-day. 
Under  these  circumstances,  I  do  not  hesitate  to 
break  mine  in  honor  of  the  bride  and  groom!" 
And  the  crystal,  thrown  violently  against  the  floor, 


THE  "ANNOUNCER"  OF  A  WEDDING 


THE    AUTHOR    ON    HIS    HUNTING    ELEPHANT 


ELEPHANTS    IN    THE    FLESH    AND    ELEPHANTS   OF    STONE 


THE  GREAT  TEMPLE  OF  ANGKOR-VAT 


THE  WEDDING  AT  KAPVRTHALA     97 

shattered  into  fragments,  amid  the  applause  of  the 
assembled  company. 

Today  is  the  Great  Day! 

At  seven  in  the  morning,  the  European,  Mus- 
sulman and  Hindu  encampments  are  awakened 
by  the  sound  of  deafening  trumpets.  The  crowd 
crushes  about  the  approaches  to  the  palace  and 
the  steps  of  the  temples  in  order  to  catch  a  momen- 
tary glimpse,  as  it  passes,  of  the  glittering  proces- 
sion of  Asiatic  kings  and  noble  European  guests. 
The  women  themselves  seem  to  have  departed, 
for  once,  from  their  native  reserve:  one  sees  them 
sitting,  only  half  veiled — some  of  them  have  even 
dared  to  lift  entirely  their  scarves  of  white  or  yel- 
low muslin — on  the  terraces  of  the  low  houses  that 
have  been  carefully  chalked  in  honor  of  the  occa- 
sion. The  tradesmen  have  decorated  their  shops, 
small  boys  are  chasing  one  another  and  throwing 
flowers  under  the  eyes  of  the  light-hearted  police- 
men who  are  smiling  at  them  with  a  half-grave, 
half-paternal  air. 

We  have  already  taken  our  places  in  the  court 
of  the  old  palace,  Jalaokhana,  in  the  shade  of  an 
awning  which  faces  the  nuptial  canopy  of  green 
velvet  with  golden  fringes,  beneath  which  the 
Brahmans  will  soon  unite  the  young  couple.  Just 
opposite  to  us  an  awning  striped  with  dark  blue 


98  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

and  white  (Kapurthalian  colors)  shelters  the 
ministers,  chamberlains,  courtiers,  officers  and 
notables.  Finally,  before  the  altars  of  the  priests, 
rises  a  second  canopy,  hung  with  marvelous  stuffs, 
below  which  are  placed  thrones  of  gold  and  silver. 
It  is  here  that  the  Maharajah  and  the  princes  are 
to  sit,  clad  in  their  dalmatics  embroidered  in  gold 
and  encrusted  with  precious  stones. 

A  flourish  of  trumpets  bursts  forth.  .  .  .  The 
cannon  thunder.  .  .  .  Here  come  the  official  per- 
sonages, one  by  one,  in  automobiles,  in  their 
coaches  or  on  the  howdahs  or  umbabaris  of  their 
elephants  with  the  tinkling  bells.  .  .  .  There  is  a 
pause.  .  .  .  Then,  while  the  orchestra  of  the 
guard,  brilliantly  directed  by  Mr.  Marshall, 
breaks  into  Mendelssohn's  Wedding  March, 
then  into  the  March  of  Glory,  composed  for  the 
occasion  by  your  servant  (a  musician  in  his  spare 
hours),  a  curtain  rises  at  the  back  of  the  patio, 
where  are  concealed,  behind  grass  screens,  all  the 
princesses  of  the  zenana. 

And  now  the  bride  appears,  her  face  uncovered. 

She  advances  slowly,  a  little  grave,  but  radiant 
with  beauty,  grace  and  elegance.  A  long  sari  of 
old  rose,  almost  salmon,  silk  drapes  her  body,  as 
slim  and  supple  as  a  vine  of  the  jungle.  A  veil  of 
the  same  color,  slightly  lowered  on  her  forehead, 


THE  WEDDING  AT  KAPURTHALA     99 

leaves  a  glimpse  of  the  dark  hair,  parted  and  held 
with  a  fillet,  after  the  Indian  fashion.  A  heavy 
collar  of  splendid  pearls,  as  large  as  nuts,  encircles 
her  neck,  of  a  dull  white  in  which  can  be  clearly 
seen  the  ascendancy  of  the  Aryan  race.  She  reaches 
the  nuptial  dais  and  seats  herself  by  the  side  of  the 
Crown  Prince,  who  is  also  in  a  superb  costume 
of  old  rose  silk,  his  head  adorned  with  a  white  and 
gold  turban,  from  which  the  Sehrah  hangs  down 
and  in  the  center  of  which  sparkles  a  flaming 
aigrette. 

The  Brahmanic  ceremony  begins,  long,  silent, 
slightly  monotonous,  curious,  nevertheless,  in  its 
symbolic  and  evocative  rites:  the  interlacing  of 
flowers  and  grains  of  rice  that  form  arabesques; 
the  reading  of  horoscopes;  recitations  of  Sanskrit 
prayers;  the  deciphering  of  ancient  scrolls  by  hol- 
low-voiced priests.  The  bridal  couple  are  seated 
on  rich,  soft  cushions;  near  them  crouches  their 
best  man,  the  youngest  of  the  four  brothers,  Prince 
Karamjit  Singh,  who  plays  the  silent  role  of  boy 
of  honor,  inseparable  from  the  bride  and  groom. 

Next  follows  the  Sikh  marriage,  under  another 
awning.  Two  priests,  with  venerable  snow-white 
beards,  read  in  muffled  voices  liturgical  anthems 
drawn  from  the  sacred  book,  the  Granth.  Others 
distribute  allegorical  flowers  and  rice,  while  seven 


ioo  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

virgins,  dressed  in  yellow,  chant  the  responses  in 
unison,  accompanying  themselves  on  a  little  port- 
able harmonium,  of  which  they  themselves  man- 
age the  bellows.  Then  the  bride  and  groom  rise, 
break  the  sacred  cake,  exchange  the  morsels  and 
come  and  place  themselves  under  the  royal  canopy, 
by  the  side  of  their  parents  and  the  crowned  heads 
of  the  company. 

The  wedding  ceremony  is  ended.  The  guests 
file  past,  quite  as  they  do  with  us,  in  the  narrow 
sacristies  of  our  churches — and  offer  the  young 
couple  their  congratulations  and  wishes  for  their 
happiness.  Far  off  the  artillery  thunders,  the 
troops  present  arms,  the  people  deliriously  acclaim 
their  future  sovereigns,  the  elephants  wave  their 
trunks  and  tinkle  their  little  silver  bells.  .  .  . 

There  it  is,  the  shining  vision  of  the  Orient  of 
the  past,  of  the  days  when  the  great  Mogul  em- 
perors, Akbar,  Shah-Jahan,  Aurengzed,  dazzled 
with  their  magnificence  a  conquered  and  prostrate 
India! 


PART  III 


CHAPTER  XI 

TOWARDS  THE  AFGHAN   FRONTIER 

The  attraction  of  the  risk — Amritsar,  its  golden  temple  and  its 
Lake  of  Immortality — Poor  Lahore! — Peshawar  and  its 
interminable  caravans — A  raid  on  an  unsubmissive  coun- 
try— Who  goes?  You  cannot  pass — A  moment  of  anguish. 

HAVE  said  good-by  to  Kapur- 
thala,  to  its  Parisian  artist-prince, 
its  polished,  gracious  court,  its  bril- 
liance and  its  splendors,  and  set 
out  for  northern  India,  which  is  so 
harsh,  arid  and  aggressive. 
My  taste  for  adventure  draws  me  irresistibly 
toward  these  wild  and  at  times  inaccessible  regions 
of  Pamir  and  Indo-Kooch,  where  the  Pathans,  the 
Afridis  and  the  Afghans  reign  as  masters,  sowing 
death,  ruin  and  terror  about  them.  Louis  Rous- 
selet,  who  lived  for  five  years  in  India,  from  1863- 
1868,  has  written  in  his  India  of  the  Rajahs:  "The 
next  day  I  was  at  Peshawar,  and  thence  I  was  able 
to  look  out  over  that  terrible  Afghan  frontier 

which  no  one  can  approach  without  rushing  to  a 

103 


104  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

certain  death.  I  should  have  greatly  liked  to  pro- 
long my  excursion  as  far  as  the  famous  Kha'ibar 
Pass  where,  in  1843,  an  English  army  of  10,000 
men  was  completely  wiped  out  by  the  Afghans. 
But  I  was  told  it  would  be  impossible,  as  a  few 
days  before  an  English  officer  had  been  murdered 
not  far  from  there."  It  must  be  admitted  that 
things  have  greatly  improved  since  1868  and  that 
it  is  practicable,  today,  to  go  as  far  as  that  famous 
Khyber  Pass,  misspelled  by  Rousselet,  without 
running  the  danger  of  certain  death.  Three  times 
a  week  the  caravans,  coming  from  Kabjul  to 
Lahore,  file  from  sunrise  to  sunset  through  this 
pass,  which  is  guarded  by  armed  battalions  of 
Sepoys  spread  out  along  the  road  and  a  few  bat- 
teries of  artillery  installed  on  the  heights.  So 
far  as  my  knowledge  goes,  travelers  and  tourists 
who  have  not  lingered  in  the  pass  after  sunset  have 
never  run  any  risk.  The  Afridi  bandits  seem  to 
have  tacitly  admitted  this  truce  which  has  been 
imposed  on  them  by  force  of  arms  and  no  longer 
trouble  in  these  days  the  innumerable  caravans 
that  wind  along  over  the  historic  and  strategic  road 
from  India  into  Central  Asia. 

What  is  more  difficult  and  dangerous  is  to  reach 
this  impenetrable  and  almost  inviolate  Afghan 


TOWARDS  THE  AFGHAN  FRONTIER  105 

frontier.     But  I  shall  have  occasion  to  speak  of 
this  later  in  some  detail. 

On  leaving  Kapurthala,  my  first  halt  is  Amritsar 
— an  obligatory  halt,  an  intensely  interesting  visit. 
Amritsar  is  not  only  one  of  the  great  cities  of  the 
Punjab,  it  is  also,  it  is  above  all,  the  religious  cap- 
ital, the  place  of  pilgrimage  of  the  Sikhs.  This 
sacred  metropolis  contains  a  marvel  which  the 
most  blase  eyes  cannot  contemplate  without  a  pro- 
found artistic  emotion;  I  am  speaking  of  the 
Temple  of  Gold  and  the  Lake  of  Immortality. 
Imagine  a  great  quadrangular  basin,  four  acres 
or  so  in  size,  in  the  center  of  which  rises,  on  an 
islet  joined  to  the  mainland  by  a  marble  jetty,  a 
square  building  of  delicate  workmanship,  the 
foundation  of  which  is  of  marble  and  all  the  rest — 
the  first  floor  and  the  roof — of  pure  and  unalloyed 
gold.  This  roof  alone  is  a  gem  of  the  goldsmith's 
work,  with  its  dome  and  its  four  little  Moorish 
towers.  All  along  the  fairy-like  jetty  are  strung 
lanterns,  half  of  marble,  half  of  gold,  which  are 
illuminated  at  nightfall.  There  are  no  other 
guardians  to  protect  these  riches  from  theft  or 
spoliation  than  a  few  old,  turbaned  fellows  who 
are  without  arms.  One  would  say  that  a  sort  of 
sacred  terror  protects  this  temple  against  any  pro- 
fane or  sacrilegious  violation.  This  is  because  in 


io6  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

the  interior  of  the  edifice  lies  the  much  venerated 
and  dreaded  Adi-Granth,  the  Koran  of  the  Sikh 
guru,  Nanak,  who  received  the  divine  inspiration 
in  the  sixteenth  century  of  our  era.  Priests  with 
gray  and  white  beards  are  seated  about  the  Book, 
which  is  veiled  by  muslin  worked  with  gold; 
young  officiating  priests  drone  through  their  noses 
anthems  in  the  minor  key,  and  crowding  pilgrims 
pass  and  repass  and  prostrate  themselves  before 
this  Hindu  Decalogue  on  which  they  fling  grains 
of  rice  and  loose  petals. 

Strange  and  poetic,  this  abstract,  philosophical, 
symbolical  religion  which  in  so  striking  a  manner 
resembles  that  of  Islam. 

From  Amritsar  I  have  gone  on  to  Lahore.  What 
a  disillusion,  this  Lahore!  ...  Is  it  because  the 
euphony  of  the  name,  its  association  with  Mas- 
senet's opera,  and  the  romance  of  departed  splen- 
dor which  still  clings  to  it  make  the  imaginative 
Frenchman  delude  himself  far  in  advance  with 
chimeras,  so  that  the  reality  at  once  appears  to 
him  very  flat,  very  banal  and  quite  insignificant? 
But  this  Lahore  of  tin  and  plaster  produced  in  me 
as  in  all  who  visit  it  the  same  impression  of  dis- 
appointment and  regret.  This  Rattan-Chands 
Temple,  this  Wazir  Khan's  Mosque,  these  tombs 
of  Ranjit  Singh's  and  Jehangir,  this  Golden 


TOWARDS  THE  AFGHAN  FRONTIER  107 

Mosque  give  the  effect  of  a  vulgarized  reproduc- 
tion, a  sort  of  chromo  of  the  magnificent  examples 
of  architecture  and  sculpture  I  have  already  seen. 
With  the  exception  of  the  fountains  of  Shalimar, 
closely  recalling  those  of  Versailles  and  Saint- 
Cloud,  which  are  surrounded  by  gardens  and  rec- 
tilinear perspectives  that  one  would  swear  had 
been  laid  out  by  Le  Notre — Lahore  quite  frankly 
does  not  deserve  the  honor  of  a  visit,  certainly  not 
of  a  prolonged  stay.  I  am  broken-hearted  to  have 
to  destroy  an  illusion  which  has  been  dear  to  many 
of  my  readers. 

Through  my  car  windows,  I  can  see  one  desolate 
landscape  follow  another,  in  this  cold,  repellent, 
desert-like  India.  Here  the  ground  is  full  of 
crevasses.  There  are  no  more  of  those  beautiful 
valleys  of  the  Punjab,  no  more  of  those  clumps 
of  trees  beneath  the  shade  of  which  the  shepherd 
used  to  lead  his  flocks  at  noon.  How  strongly  we 
feel  the  keen  North  wind,  that  harsh  wind  which 
comes  from  the  high  plateaus  of  Asia!  ...  In  the 
distance,  the  first  spurs  of  the  massive  mountains 
of  Pamir  and  of  Indo-Kooch  rise  up  in  sharp 
silhouettes. 

The  next  day  I  awake  in  a  city  that  is  no  longer 
Indian — Peshawar — and  which,  because  of  its 
proximity  to  Afghanistan,  wears  an  almost  Persian 


io8  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

air.  Everything  here  is  Mussulman.  The  inhabi- 
tants, as  one  sees  them  in  the  streets,  have  their 
beards  reddened  with  henna;  they  have  shaven 
skulls,  noses  like  eagle  beaks,  shifty,  blinking  eyes. 
Their  turbans,  flattened  like  pancakes,  give  them 
the  surly  air  of  mountain  brigands,  in  the  style  of 
Edmond  About.  There  are  very  few  women,  but 
on  the  other  hand  a  great  many  children,  some  of 
them  perched  on  buffaloes  or  donkeys,  others  be- 
tween the  camels'  humps,  those  grave  and  peaceful 
camels  which  encumber  the  streets  while  they 
ruminate  philosophically  on  the  emptiness  of  all 
earthly  destinies. 

The  principal  attraction  of  Peshawar,  I  will 
even  say  the  only  attraction  of  this  frontier  town 
of  90,000  inhabitants,  in  which  are  mingled  all  the 
northern  races  of  the  peninsula,  Afghans,  Pathans, 
Afridis,  Baluchis,  Kashmirians  and  Persians,  is  the 
excursion  to  the  famous  Khyber  Pass,  that  strategic 
defile  through  which  the  Russians  might  formerly 
have  invaded  India.  Today,  because  of  the 
Anglo-Russian  political  alliance,  this  eventuality 
is  fortunately  no  longer  to  be  feared.  I  say  "for- 
tunately" since  because  of  it  I  was  able  to  go  as 
far  as  the  advance  posts  of  the  Indo- Afghan  hinter- 
land, and  therefore,  it  was  thanks  to  the  Triple 


TOWARDS  THE  AFGHAN  FRONTIER  109 

Entente  that  I  was  able  to  set  foot,  somewhat  illic- 
itly, on  forbidden  territory. 

In  the  early  morning  I  am  awakened  by  the 
Lieutenant-Colonel  from  Kergariou  (with  whom 
I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  traversing  this  region 
on  the  way  from  Kapurthala).  He  is  as  stiff  with 
cold  as  I  am,  after  a  night  passed  in  shivering  in 
his  uncomfortable  and  icy  room.  The  govern- 
ment of  Peshawar  has  very  graciously  given  us  all 
the  necessary  permits,  and  even  authorized  us  to 
attach  ourselves  to  a  mission  sent  by  the  General 
Staff  to  carry  instructions  to  the  distant  outposts 
of  Landi-Kotal.  An  open  automobile  carries  us 
rapidly  across  the  town  and  its  suburbs,  then  along 
the  white,  dusty  road.  Our  companions  are  ami- 
able English  officers,  distinctly  gentlemen ;  I  notice 
that  they  all  carry  revolvers  in  their  belts,  and 
that  the  chauffeur  and  the  two  Sepoys  who  escort 
us,  squatting  on  the  running  boards,  are  armed 
with  rifles  and  have  their  belts  full  of  cartridges. 
Hum!  Hum!  This  has  quite  an  air  of  war,  or  in 
any  case  of  an  armed  expedition  into  a  rebellious 
and  inhospitable  country,  infested  with  Afridi 
bandits,  robbers,  cutthroats,  torturers,  who  are 
only  held  in  check  by  the  fear  of  the  guns  of  the 
forts.  Moreover,  our  expedition — the  governor 
has  urged  this  on  us — must  take  place  only  between 


no  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

sunrise  and  sunset;  otherwise  the  adventure  is  at 
our  own  risk  and  peril. 

The  narrow  gorge  which  we  have  now  entered 
is  austere  and  grandiose  as  a  landscape  of  Dante. 
There  is  no  verdure,  no  grassy  slope,  no  bush  or 
shrub,  nothing  but  stone  and  sand.  Above  our 
heads  the  caravan  route  unrolls  in  a  long  network. 
It  is  an  interminable  procession  of  camels,  buf- 
faloes and  mules  which,  by  the  thousand,  trans- 
port from  Peshawar  to  Kabjul,  or  vice  versa,  the 
goods  that  are  exchanged  between  these  two  great 
Asiatic  markets.  One  might  think  it  was  a  Bibli- 
cal exodus,  a  flight  of  the  Hebrews  after  one  of 
those  plagues  of  which  the  Scripture  speaks.  A 
unique  spectacle,  such  as  I  have  seen  nowhere, 
even  in  China  and  Mongolia!  This  narrow  rib- 
bon of  beasts  of  burden,  stretching  over  several 
miles  of  roadway,  absolutely  disconcerts  the  imag- 
ination; it  remains  with  me  even  more  as  a  geo- 
graphical than  as  a  pictorial  vision. 

The  gorge  continues;  in  spite  of  myself  it  re- 
minds me  of  the  Pass  of  the  Axe  where  Flaubert 
imprisoned  his  mercenaries  alive.  We,  too  (if 
these  bands  of  robbers  were  organized,  centralized 
and  commanded  by  a  daring  emir),  we  should 
never  be  able  to  escape  alive  from  this  pass.  The 
Sting  of  possible  danger  thrills  our  amour-propre 


TOWARDS  THE  AFGHAN  FRONTIER  in 

deliciously.  But  suddenly  the  ravine  broadens 
out,  we  leave  behind  Ali-Mosjid,  a  little  mosque 
which  seems  to  bar  the  way.  The  last  Sepoy  out- 
posts salute  us.  Beyond  is  tl\e  beginning  of  the 
forbidden  territory,  the  Indo-Afghan  hinterland 
of  which  I  have  spoken.  Henceforth  we  have  no 
one  to  depend  upon  but  ourselves,  our  little  escort 
and  a  few  miles  away  the  batteries  of  heavy  artil- 
lery of  the  English  post  of  Landi-Kotal.  What 
a  terrible  desert  now  opens  before  our  eyes!  A 
flat  uniformity,  yellow  and  sandy,  sprinkled  here 
and  there  with  granite  boulders.  On  the  road — 
can  one  call  this  a  road! — we  no  longer  pass  a 
single  living  thing,  man  or  beast.  In  the  distance, 
a  massive  mountain  range  cuts  against  the  indigo 
of  the  sky;  then  white  patches  that  grow  clearer; 
then  a  collection  of  tumuli  which  are  nothing  else 
than  the  first  Afghan  houses  of  beaten  earth,  at  the 
frontier  post  where  India  definitely  ceases. 

In  the  afternoon,  after  the  excellent  lunch  which 
is  offered  us  by  the  British  officers  in  their  com- 
fortable block-house,  we  visit  the  little  village,  its 
markets,  its  mosques  and  its  tombs.  Very  strange, 
these  tombs,  earthen  mounds,  hillocks  surmounted 
by  staves  from  which  banners  float,  and  they  make 
one  realize  that  Central  Asia  is  only  a  league 
away.  An  examination  of  the  shops  reveals 


ii2  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

nothing  European ;  one  finds  there  only  goods  for 
barter,  articles  of  immediate  utility,  no  knick- 
knacks,  no  vanities.  The  tourist — let  us  ra-ther  say 
the  traveler — so  rarely,  so  exceptionally  ventures 
into  these  regions!  Before  us,  as  we  look  down 
from  the  citadel,  the  great  valley  that  leads  to 
Kabul  extends  indefinitely,  flanked  by  the  chains 
of  Pamir  and  the  Indo-Kooch,  the  foothills  of 
which  sink  away  at  our  very  feet.  A  few  hundred 
meters  from  us  is  the  frontier  of  Afghanistan.  We 
see  it  with  our  eyes  quite  clearly,  not  marked  as 
in  Europe  or  by  a  painted  or  emblazoned  post,  but 
simply  indicated  by  a  cabin  of  refuge,  a  sort  of 
sentry-box  of  flat  bricks,  commanding  the  strategic 
route.  All  the  caravans  which  we  have  just  en- 
countered, those  innumerable  strings  of  camels, 
buffaloes,  and  mules,  that  tattered  Biblical  exodus, 
all  have  had  to  defile  under  the  pitiless  eye  of  the 
khan  and  his  soldiers.  The  papers  are  minutely 
verified  and  stamped;  no  fraud  is  possible  as  re- 
gards the  identity  of  the  caravaners,  who  must  all 
prove  their  nationality  as  Afghans.  The  Euro- 
pean, no  matter  how  profound  his  knowledge  of 
their  language  and  customs,  would  never  pass  the 
scrutinizing  glances  of  these  customs  men  di  primo 
cartello. 

I  question  the  officers ;  I  am  seized  with  a  some- 


THE    ROCK   AND  THE    PLAIN    OF   GWALIOR 


THE    TERRACES    AT    FUTTEHPORE    SIKRI,     NEAR    AGRA 


TOWARDS  THE  AFGHAN  FRONTIER  113 

what  childish  curiosity  to  approach  these  sentries. 
Can  I  do  it  without  risk?  Major  S —  smiles,  shakes 
his  head  and  politely  advises  me  not  to  do  any- 
thing. It  does  not  do  to  trifle  with  these  rude 
mountaineers  who  do  not  understand  pleasantries. 
They  might  misinterpret  my  intention,  imagining 
that  I  wished  to  violate  their  territory;  a  pistol 
shot  is  a  matter  of  a  moment.  Very  well,  I  shall 
be  wise.  And  besides,  I  may  well  consider  myself 
as  highly  privileged  to  have  been  able  to  approach 
so  closely  the  forbidden  region.  There  are  not 
many  others  who  can  boast  of  that. 

Our  mission  is  at  an  end;  our  English  guides 
and  we  ourselves  quickly  make  our  farewells  to 
the  little  garrison  of  Landi-Kotal.  We  must  hurry, 
for  the  sun  has  begun  to  sink  towards  the  horizon; 
it  would  not  be  good  to  have  a  breakdown  in  the 
midst  of  the  hinterland,  or  even  at  the  beginning 
of  the  Khyber  Pass.  Let  us  be  off,  then!  Our 
automobile  starts,  flies  down  the  slopes,  fords  the 
torrents  at  the  risk  of  stalling  the  motor.  .  .  . 
What  does  it  matter?  We  must  be  out  of  this  at 
all  costs  before  night  falls.  We  cross  on  our  return 
journey  the  interminable  ribbon  of  caravans  en- 
countered on  the  way  out.  Then  we  reach  the  be- 
ginning of  the  defile.  At  a  sharp  turning,  great 
fragments  of  rock  roll  over  our  road  and  come 


H4  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

near  to  upsetting  us  and  pulverizing  us.  I  raise 
my  head  and  perceive  in  an  open  space  above  us, 
on  a  ridge,  turbaned  and  grimacing  faces,  trying 
to  conceal  themselves.  At  a  gesture  of  the  officer 
who  commands  us,  one  of  the  Sepoys  makes  a 
movement  as  if  to  put  his  rifle  to  his  shoulder. 
The  heads  have  disappeared.  It  has  all  happened 
so  quickly  that  I  wonder  if,  for  an  instant,  I  have 
not  been  the  subject  of  an  hallucination. 

God  be  praised!  As  the  first  stars  shine  out, 
we  have  passed  the  dangerous  zone.  Henceforth 
we  are  in  Indian  territory,  once  more  the  guests, 
friends  and  proteges  of  noble  England. 

Just  the  same,  I  cannot  think  of  this  little  day's 
frolic  without  telling  myself  that  I  almost  lived 
there  a  page  of  adventurous  romance. 


CHAPTER  XII 


ON  THE  ROCK  OF  GWALIOR 

An  islet  lost  ...  on  land — A  critical  ascent — Gods  and  genii 
in  high  relief — The  hundredth  tiger — "Refreshments"  with 
wild  animals — A  Nimrod  and  a  philanthropist — Deserted 
streets — What  the  secretary,  His  Highness's  chamberlain, 
qualifies  as  a  "very  big  word." 

O  you  know  Sark,  the  pearl  of  the 
Channel  Islands?  It  rises  abruptly 
above  the  Channel,  long  and  nar- 
row like  the  spine  of  a  wild  beast 
ready  to  spring;  not  a  beach,  not  a 
harbor;  one  lands  there  "a  la 
brusque,"  as  the  sailors  say. 

I  thought  of  the  basalt  islet,  this  morning,  as  I 
made  the  ascent  of  the  Rock  of  Gwalior.  It  rises 
out  of  the  endless  plain  like  an  island  lost  in  the 
sea;  like  Sark,  it  has  the  same  wild  aspect,  the 
same  jagged  setting  where  the  exiled  Hugo  con- 
ceived his  desperate  struggle  between  Gilliatt  and 
the  octopus. 

At  the  foot  of  the  fastness — whither  an  armored 

115 


n6  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

"side-car,"  emblazoned  with  His  Highness's  arms, 
came  to  deposit  me — an  elephant  awaits  me,  ac- 
coutred with  bells  and  decked  with  a  scarlet  sad- 
dle-cloth bordered  with  green.  We  are  off!  .  .  . 
We  are  climbing  the  difficult  slope  to  the  rock  it- 
self. This  road  is  so  hard,  so  painful  to  the  pachy- 
derm's feet,  the  upward  slope  is  so  steep,  that  they 
have  had  to  hollow  out  a  sort  of  series  of  steps  in 
its  inclined  plane.  Every  plunge  of  the  animal 
makes  me  pitch  in  an  alarming  fashion;  I  am 
seized  with  an  appalling  fear  as  we  hug  this  preci- 
pice over  which  I  feel  myself  in  danger  every  in- 
stant of  being  thrown.  And  then,  if  the  girth 
were  to  burst?  .  .  .  Come,  let  us  not  think  of  all 
these  things,  let  us  stiffen  ourselves,  let  us  cling 
tight.  Sursum  corda!  What  a  fairyland,  that 
expanse  of  white  houses,  those  palaces,  those  tem- 
ples and  those  parks,  those  ponds  and,  further  off, 
that  yellow  desert,  broken  by  little  copses  and  high 
grasses — the  preserve  where  the  king  hunts  the 
tiger — all  this  seen  from  aloft,  from  an  altitude 
that  almost  gives  one  vertigo.  .  .  .  And  what  an 
incomparable  situation  from  the  strategic  point  of 
view!  They  tell  me  that  the  Mahratta  sovereigns 
knew  how  to  take  advantage  of  it  and  surrounded 
it  with  an  enclosure  of  strong  ramparts  that  close- 
ly hugged  the  sides  of  the  island— lost  on  land! 


ON  THE  ROCK  OF  GWALIOR         117 

I  can  understand,  therefore,  the  difficulties  of  the 
English  in  conquering  this  stronghold  which  in 
olden  times  was  considered  impregnable.  Many 
are  the  things  to  be  seen  from  this  platform:  the 
ancient  zenana,  decorated  in  the  Mussulman  fash- 
ion with  arabesques  and  with  little  lozenges  in 
blue  porcelain  of  a  most  graceful  effect;  the  prison 
of  the  captives,  barely  lighted  with  a  tiny  window, 
which  was  peopled  by  the  mere  royal  caprice. 
Further  away  is  the  Bhao,  a  heavy,  thickset  tem- 
ple, the  general  conception  of  which  somewhat 
recalls  the  Khmer  monuments  and  about  which 
run  allegorical  bas-reliefs.  Then  a  well,  a 
cemetery.  .  .  . 

But  the  veritable  marvel  is  the  descent  on  the 
other  side  of  the  rock.  It  is  a  sloping  descent,  the 
length  of  the  monolithic  block,  where  the  Jainist 
devotion  of  this  people  has  hollowed  and  sculp- 
tured gigantic  high-reliefs  which  one  sees  as  one 
passes  by,  under  the  hanging  bindweeds.  An  orgy 
of  sculpture!  There  are  large  figures  and  small, 
middle-sized,  fat,  thin,  upright,  seated,  recumbent, 
kneeling  and  especially  crouching — of  these  gods 
and  prophets  with  their  great  almond-shaped  eyes, 
whose  mouths  keep  ever  at  the  line  of  the  lips  a 
scoffing,  evil  expression.  And  the  goddesses!  I 
see  here  and  there  a  swarm,  a  profusion,  a  super- 


u8  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

abundance,  all  slim  and  large-hipped,  with  the 
great  toe  lifted  up,  guarding  in  their  attitude  and 
their  gestures  a  little  of  that  gloomy  passivity 
which  made  them,  even  in  the  Brahmanic 
Olympus,  inferiors  and  not  equals.  Then,  those 
colossal  nudes:  the  Tirthankaras,  Adinath  and 
Parvasnath,  two  of  the  twenty-four  precursors  and 
founders  of  the  Jain  schism.  And  others  of  the 
chiefs,  mutilated  but  still  menacing  and  fierce.  .  .  . 
This  descent,  on  the  back  of  an  elephant, 
through  this  thicket  of  divinities,  demoniac,  ter- 
rible, sneering — it  is  India,  all  India,  concrete  and 
synthesized! 


At  the  foot  of  the  fortress,  Lashkar,  the  coquet- 
tish little  modern  town  with  its  shining,  immac- 
ulate terraces,  lives  like  ah  indolent,  pampered 
parasite  at  the  expense  of  the  prince,  who  is  one  of 
the  most  hospitable  alive. 

"He  is  also  a  mighty  hunter  before  the  Lord," 
remarked  one  of  his  chamberlains  who  accom- 
panied me  and  took  me  to  visit  the  palace.  "You 
know,  Monsieur,  that  His  Highness  has  just  ex- 
ceeded his  hundredth  tiger!  I  might  add  that  he 
is  a  devoted  naturalist.  You  see  these  glass  cases?" 


OAT  THE  ROCK  OF  GWAL1OR         119 

Indeed,  I  make  my  homage  to  the  taste  and  the 
spirit  of  classification  which  have  presided  over 
the  installation  of  this  museum.  Everything  is 
labeled  in  the  European  fashion;  there  are  speci- 
mens, in  these  collections,  which  our  museums 
would  have  good  reason  to  envy.  The  Mahara- 
jah's predilection  for  animals  has  caused  him  to 
divide  off,  along  the  edge  of  the  harem,  two  great 
spaces  planted  with  shrubs  and  trees,  surrounded 
by  high  walls  and  reserved,  one  for  lions,  the  other 
for  tigers.  The  magnificent  animals  move  there 
at  their  ease,  leaping  and  snorting  at  liberty  in  a 
surrounding  space  of  ten  or  twelve  acres.  A  kiosk 
has  been  set  on  top  of  the  wall  at  each  corner,  to 
enable  the  guests  of  His  Highness  to  take  tea 
while  watching  the  animals  feed — a  truly  Nero- 
nian  spectacle!  Swarms  of  eagles,  vultures  and 
crows  soaT  and  flutter  above  the  arenas,  watching 
the  gazelle  or  the  live  hare  which  the  great  cats 
are  already  fascinating  with  their  phosphorescent 
eyes.  On  the  ridge  of  the  walls  the  peacocks 
smooth  with  their  beaks  their  sumptuous,  unreal 
feathers,  indifferent  to  the  approaching  carnage. 
There  is  the  very  note  of  Asia. 

And  all  about,  the  parks.  .  .  .  Parks  combed  by 
an  army  of  expert  gardeners,  parks  irrigated  by 
canals,  so  vast  that,  in  order  to  cross  them,  even 


120  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

to  take  care  of  them,  the  king  has  built  a  little 
railway  through  them,  which  also  connects  the 
palace  and  the  station.  Everywhere  an  unbridled 
luxury  of  domesticity.  Everywhere,  too,  I  hasten 
to  add,  a  generous  royal  care  to  embellish  the  cap- 
ital and  succor  the  poor.  He  is  a  philanthropist, 
this  prince;  I  can  see  it  in  the  way  in  which  he  has 
organized  the  municipal  and  sanitary  services  of 
his  city.  I  think  I  am  dreaming  as  I  observe  the 
cleanliness  of  this  great  street  of  Sarafa  which 
leads  to  the  square  of  the  same  name.  There  are 
several  striking  new  buildings  there,  in  a  gay, 
Oriental  style,  resembling  those  of  Bombay:  the 
bazaar,  the  European  theater,  the  printing-house, 
the  Victoria  Memorial  covered  market,  the  treas- 
ury, the  post  office.  Still,  it  all  rings  out  of  tune 
in  this  distinctly  Asiatic  scene,  in  this  dust  where 
the  dogs  frolic  helter-skelter  as  they  once  did  in 
Constantinople,  on  this  road  where  the  native 
ikkas  and  other  uncouth  vehicles  roll  by. 

There  is  little  life  in  the  streets.  I  am  struck 
by  this  and  I  cannot  resist  asking  an  explanation 
from  His  Highness's  special  secretary  who  re- 
ceives us  in  the  prince's  absence;  the  latter  is  un- 
able to  return  until  tomorrow,  in  time  for  the 
"purdah-party"  arranged  by  the  Maharanee.  We 
are  in  the  great  Hall  of  Welcome  in  the  old  palace 


OJV  THE  ROCK  OF  GWAL10R         121 

(that  of  the  guests  is  called  the  "Meeting").  The 
courtier  approaches  me  and,  lowering  his  voice, 
visibly  embarrassed  by  my  question,  murmurs: 

"Yes,  it  is  true.  You  must  have  been  surprised 
at  the  lack  of  movement  in  our  town.  .  .  .  Gwalior 
is  rather  dead  just  now.  ...  It  is  because — how 
shall  I  put  it? — we  have  been  having  lately  some 
little  difficulties  with  health.  .  .  ." 

"An  epidemic,  no  doubt?" 

"Oh!  good  heavens,  that  is  a  very  big 
word.  .  .  ." 

"Still.  .  .  ." 

"There  has  been  a  panic  among  our  towns- 
people; they  have  gone  out  to  the  suburbs,  to  the 
country.  As  a  result  we  have  scarcely  more  than 
one  hundred  thousand  inhabitants.  Ah!  it  is  not 
as  it  was  in  1902.  Then  we  had  twenty  thousand 
deaths.  This  time  there  are  only  a  few  thousand 
cases." 

"The  plague,  is  it?" 

"Yes,  but  don't  be  uneasy — we  have  the  am- 
pullas.  You  know,  this  new  serum?  .  .  ." 

Charming! 

There  is  nothing  to  do  but  go  and  have  our  tea. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


TWO  MONGOLIAN  CAPITALS 

An  Englishman  who  knows  how  to  see — A  few  words  on  the 
castes — Shah  Jahan,  the  Great  Mogul — A  "dream  of 
marble" — Muntaz-i-Mahal,  the  Chosen  of  the  Palace — 
The  most  beautiful  mausoleum  in  the  universe — A  human 
game  of  checkers — Sympathetic  Islam. 

ILL  you  believe  it?  I  have  left 
Gwalior  under  an  excellent  impres- 
sion, in  spite  of  the  little  sword  of 
Damocles  of  the  plague  and  the 
serum  ampullas.  My  greatest  de- 
sire is  to  return  and  even  to  have  a 
long  stay  there.  Just  now,  the  Punjab  Mail  is 
carrying  me  with  all  the  speed  of  a  great,  privi- 
leged express  train  toward  the  North,  or,  more 
exactly,  toward  Agra  and  Delhi,  the  two  ancient 
Mongol  capitals  with  their  walls  of  marble,  en- 
crusted with  precious  stones. 

In  the  train  I  have  made  the  acquaintance  of 
an  Englishman,  a  certain  friendly  Mr.  James 
Mayor  who  has  a  wonderful  knowledge  of  India 


122 


TWO  MONGOLIAN  CAPITALS        123 

and  gives  me  many  savory  details  of  its  inhabi- 
tants. Thus  I  learn  from  him  that  a  good  Hindu 
should  not  die  in  a  bed  but  on  the  ground,  even  on 
the  soil,  upon  which  he  ought  to  breathe  out  his 
last  breath;  the  rich,  once  they  are  dead  and 
stretched  out  on  the  ground,  have  drops  of  the 
water  of  Hurdwar  sprinkled  in  their  mouths.  As 
for  the  famous  suttees,  the  funeral  pyres  of  widows, 
they  are  no  longer  seen.  Eight  years  ago,  near 
Calcutta,  a  widow  claimed  the  honor  of  being 
burned  alive  with  the  corpse  of  her  husband.  Be- 
fore mounting  the  funeral  pile,  in  order  to  harden 
herself,  she  imitated  Mucius  Scevola  and  burned 
off  her  right  hand  in  the  light  of  a  lamp.  The 
Court  of  Bengal  condemned  those  who  took  part 
and  their  accomplices  to  seven  years  in  prison. 
Since  then,  no  similar  instances  have  reached  the 
knowledge  of  the  authorities. 

And  the  Tchemmas?  Mr.  Mayor  tells  me  a 
very  curious  anecdote  about  those  pariahs  who  re- 
pair boots,  or  serve  as  ditch-diggers,  or  empty  the 
dirty  water  in  hotels,  under  the  name  of  Bhisties 
or  Metters.  One  day  two  European  sportsmen 
had  been  drowned  in  a  pond  while  shooting  ducks. 
A  Sepoy  passed,  saw  them  and  summoned  two 
natives  to  go  and  fish  them  out  again.  The  latter, 
who  belonged  to  the  modest  but  honorable  caste 


124  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

of  the  Vaisyas,  refused  with  indignation,  alleging 
that  a  task  so  unclean  could  be  undertaken  only  by 
Tchemmas.  They  were  obliged  to  go  two  miles 
away  to  get  villagers  of  a  still  more  humble  caste 
than  that  of  the  Vaisyas.  But  they  were  not  the 
desired  Tchemmas,  and  it  was  only  at  the  point 
of  the  rifle  that  these  villagers  undertook  the.  task. 

I  could  spend  hours  listening  to  this  English- 
man, who  knows  how  to  observe  at  the  same  time 
that  he  is  attending  to  his  business.  Did  you  ever 
chance  to  run  across  certain  people  with  the  po- 
tentialities of  talent,  even  of  genius,  in  art,  science, 
pure  thought?  Aptitudes  in  germination  stifled 
by  the  prosaic  cares  of  the  material  life,  which 
thus  deprive  humanity  of  much  intellectual 
wealth?  They  pass  and  only  graze  their  true 
destiny. 

This  Mr.  Mayor,  whom  I  shall  probably  never 
see  again,  is  one  of  these,  perhaps.  Otherwise  he 
would  have  a  whole  book  to  write  on  India  (and 
the  English).  .  .  .  Nevermind.  This  superficial 
conversation  on  the  train  with  an  affable  stranger, 
who  disappears  at  a  junction  station  without  giv- 
ing me  his  card  or  his  address  in  India  or  else- 
where, suddenly  illumines  for  me,  as  with  a  flash 
of  light,  the  edges  of  the  abyss  which  separates 
the  European  from  the  Hindu :  that  of  the  castes. 


TWO  MONGOLIAN  CAPITALS        125 

An  impassable  gulf  which  would  suffice  to  pre- 
vent all  intercourse  between  two  natives,  unknown 
to  one  another,  and  whom  the  accident  of  a  journey 
had  brought  together  on  the  opposite  benches  of 
the  same  second  or  third  class  compartment!  For 
example,  no  contact  would  be  possible  between 
a  Brahman  and  a  Vaisya.  At  the  mere  sight  of 
the  sacred  band  of  the  Brahmans,  worn  like  a  scarf 
by  no  matter  what  ragamuffin,  the  latter  would 
immediately  and  instinctively  take  himself  off  with 
a  sort  of  religious  terror.  Ah!  these  implacable 
castes,  the  origin  of  which  is  lost  in  the  mist  of 
ages ;  they  form,  indeed,  the  most  impassable  bar- 
rier against  the  spread  of  Occidental  civilization. 

The  sacred  books  of  antiquity  all  agree  in  stat- 
ing that  this  never-to-be-altered  classification  ema- 
nated from  Brahma  himself,  who  drew  the  Brah- 
mans from  his  head  (or,  according  to  another 
version,  from  his  mouth),  the  Kchatryas  from  his 
arms,  the  Vaisyas  from  his  stomach,  and  the 
Soudras  from  his  feet.  And  how  many  other  de- 
grees there  are  all  along  the  length  of  this  ladder! 
.  .  .  That  coolie  who  is  carrying  a  load  on  his 
head  would  never  carry  it  on  his  shoulders;  he 
who  sells  oil  cannot  sell  grain ;  a  cook  would  never 
condescend  to  pluck  his  chicken ;  the  butler  of  an 
orthodox  household  would  never  touch  a  jar  of 


126  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

water.  Why?  The  explanation  (I  should  say 
the  explanations)  of  these  phenomena  would  re- 
quire volumes,  without  counting  the  commen- 
taries. Short  of  undertaking  a  detailed  mono- 
graph on  these  social  distinctions — which  would 
be  beyond  the  scope  of  this  book  that  I  have  dedi- 
cated especially  to  the  mysteries  of  India — would 
it  not  be  better  to  admit  frankly  and  simply  that 
there  are  persons  born  to  be  shoemakers,  tailors, 
or  barbers,  and  others  to  be  potters,  goldsmiths  or 
fishermen,  finally  others  to  carry  the  parasol  of 
the  nawab  or  to  goad  the  rajah's  elephant? — im- 
posed vocations  to  which  they  must  all  submit, 
willy-nilly,  but  in  which  they  believe,  which  they 
practise  and  from  which  they  never  escape  under 
pain  of  losing  caste  and  falling  into  the  impure 
mob  of  the  pariahs,  the  Poulias  and  other  outcasts. 
Nor  must  it  be  imagined  that  this  punishment  is 
reserved  for  the  lower  classes.  No  less  than  the 
inferior  Soudras,  the  superior  Vaisyas  and  Kcha- 
tryas,  even  the  Brahmans  can  be  subject  to  this 
supreme  catastrophe. 

This  explains  so  many  dreary  or  despairing 
marriages  between  young  people  of  the  same  rank 
who,  under  pain  of  .losing  caste,  are  forbidden  by 
the  terrible  Law  of  Manu  to  form  an  alliance  with 
any  other  caste.  The  degradation  attached  to  any 


TWO  MONGOLIAN  CAPITALS        127 

such  infraction — that  is  to  say,  the  loss  of  caste, 
would  be  equally  incurred  in  other  cases,  such  as 
touching  a  pariah,  the  forgetfulness  of  certain  re- 
ligious practices,  the  use  of  forbidden  foods. 
Against  this  force  of  inertia,  endured  with  so  much 
passivity  or  fanaticism,  all  the  Catholic  and 
Protestant  evangelical  attempts  have  beaten  fruit- 
lessly, without  any  hope  of  success.  Buddhism 
itself,  the  great  leveler  of  social  conditions,  has 
been  unavailing  and  almost  powerless  before  the 
omnipotence  of  the  Brahmans  and  the  blind  obsti- 
nacy of  their  followers — I  was  about  to  say  their 
victims. 

The  superior  caste  of  the  Brahmans  is  itself 
infinitely  subdivided.  The  day  on  which  it  ceases 
to  exist  will  mark  the  end  of  all  the  others,  which 
exist  only  as  its  satellites.  Although  I  shall  have 
occasion  to  speak  in  several  chapters  of  this  book 
about  the  officiating  or  priestly  Brahmans,  it  seems 
worth  while  to  slip  in  a  few  brief  observations 
concerning  the  society  of  the  Brahmans,  from 
which  these  excessively  influential  priests  are 
recruited. 

In  the  first  place,  the  following  exterior  and 
distinctive  signs,  reveal  them  to  the  veneration  of 
the  faithful:  the  symbolic  mark  on  the  forehead, 
the  shaven  head  with  the  little  tuft  at  the  top  (like 


128  ,  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

the  Mussulman),  the  uncovered  throat,  allowing 
the  crossed  cord  of  hemp  or  wool  to  be  seen.  Those 
among  them  who  do  not  take  the  vows  of  their 
religion  are  allowed  to  wear  a  long  robe  and  a 
turban;  their  wives  also  wear  the  large  veil  and 
a  narrow,  sleeveless  garment  which  covers  the 
upper  part  of  their  bodies.  The  most  learned 
among  them  are  astronomers  or  astrologers. 
Others,  the  Pandidapapans,  are  the  secretaries  of 
princes  or  the  cashiers  of  banks;  still  others,  the 
Tatiodipapans,  consecrated  to  Siva,  live  on  offer- 
ings in  exchange  for  prayers;  finally  others,  the 
real  ecclesiastics,  are  in  charge  of  the  services  in 
the  Vishnu  pagodas.  Among  these  last,  who  are 
called  Papan-Vaishenavans,  we  may  distinguish 
the  Vanasprastras,  who  must  be  at  least  forty  years 
of  age,  and  the  Sanyashis  or  hermits,  who  can 
count  twenty-two  full  years  of  solitude  and  con- 
templation. 

The  second  superior  caste,  that  of  the  Kchatryas, 
seems  to  have  been,  from  all  time,  dedicated  to  the 
profession  of  arms.  That  is  to  say,  it  includes  in 
its  ranks  potentates  and  warriors,  from  the  noblest 
and  most  virile  blood  in  India,  whether  the  for- 
tune of  their  birth  has  made  them  Hindu  mahara- 
jahs,  or  their  conversion  to  the  Mohammedan 
faith  has  made  them  nawabs.  Look  at  their 


ft  .  i 


M 


AGRA — THE  SULTANAS'  PISCINA 


MADRAS — AN    INSURGENT    HINDU    BEING    TAKEN    TO    PRISON 


TWO  MONGOLIAN  CAPITALS        129 

women;  they  are  all,  irrespective  of  their  religious 
faith  (since  we  are  speaking  here  of  social  classes) , 
dressed  in  the  richest  and  most  varicolored  gar- 
ments, living  in  sumptuous  surroundings,  in  an 
unheard-of  luxury  as  regards  dress,  servants, 
houses,  camels  and  elephants.  To  this  caste,  to 
speak  geographically  and  ethnographically,  be- 
long the  Mahrattas,  the  Rajputs,  the  Sikhs  and 
also  the  Nairs  of  Malabar,  who  still  practise  the 
communization  of  women. 

Let  us  pass  to  the  Vaisyas,  the  third  category  in 
the  religious  order.  This  is  also  a  rich  caste  which 
is  composed  of  agriculturists,  cattle  breeders,  gar- 
deners, wholesale  merchants,  in  general  well  clad 
and  with  good  incomes,  who  are  curiously  divided 
into  tribes  of  the  right  and  the  left  hand  and  who, 
with  the  exception  of  the  tribe  of  the  Banians,  are 
permitted  to  use  meat.  And  finally,  let  us  say  a 
word  about  the  Soudras,  the  fourth  and  last  of 
the  superior  castes.  These  include  the  following 
trades:  artisans,  workmen,  servants,  constrained 
under  pain  of  utter  disgrace  to  follow  the  paternal 
profession.  Whoever  is  born  a  blacksmith  cannot 
die  a  laundryman,  and  so  forth.  Especially  note- 
worthy is  the  case  of  the  potters  or  Cossevers,  all 
of  them  votaries  of  Siva  Tandava.  They  are  not 
included  in  the  classifications  of  the  right-hand 


i3o  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

and  the  left-hand  tribes,  a  privilege  that  has  fallen 
to  them  from  the  consideration  in  which  the  In- 
dians hold  the  manufacture,  repairing,  preserva- 
tion and  purity  of  vases  and  jars,  and  also  the  role 
of  bandaging  and  caring  for  wounds  which  has 
devolved  upon  them.  Certain  of  these  potters  who 
are  charged  with  the  manufacture  of  sacred  uten- 
sils have  become  rajahs.  Nevertheless,  there  is 
nothing  in  the  professional  apparatus  of  these  men 
which  sharply  differentiates  it  from  other  work: 
a  simple  horizontal  wheel,  turning  on  a  pivot 
which  enables  them  to  shape  the  clay.  The  potters' 
wives  all  wear  a  large  waist-cloth  of  dotted  linen, 
which  leaves  one  breast  and  a  portion  of  the  ab- 
domen uncovered.  The  incredible  lightness  of 
the  vases  manufactured  by  their  husbands  allows 
them  to  carry  as  many  as  seven  or  eight  on  their 
heads. 

Succeeding  the  Soudras  come  the  inferior, 
humbler  and — let  us  admit  it — somewhat  despised 
castes,  the  mixed  products  of  illegitimate  mar- 
riages between  different  ranks  of  society,  and  bene- 
fitting  in  a  fashion  from  a  tacit  and  legal  amnesty. 
After  these,  in  a  vile  and  obscure  medley,  come  the 
Parayans  or  pariahs  of  the  North  and  the  Poulias 
of  the  South,  who  are  synonymous  with  shame  and 
infamy.  However  much  it  may  affront  our  pride 


TWO  MONGOLIAN  CAPITALS        131 

as  Europeans,  we,  in  the  eyes  of  Hindus  of  good 
caste,  are  included  among  those  who  are  disin- 
herited by  birth.  I  will  add,  by  way  of  some  con- 
solation, that  the  same  is  true  of  Mussulmen,  like 
ourselves  impure  eaters  of  cows.  The  pariahs, 
to  give  them  their  generic  name,  practise  the  low- 
est and  most  despised  of  trades.  They  skin  animals 
that  have  died  of  sickness,  tan  the  skin  and  feed  on 
their  flesh.  All  pure  castes  are  forbidden  to  use 
anything  that  has  even  been  touched  by  them,  such 
as  wells  from  which  they  have  drawn  water.  A 
pariah  who  merely  dared  to  sit  down  on  the  mar- 
gin of  an  ordinary  well  would  inevitably  be  stoned. 
Born  under  the  stigma  of  an  indelible  opprobrium, 
these  unfortunates  camp  outside  of  the  common 
walls;  in  the  fields  they  are  given  the  most  arid 
spots  and  the  ones  that  are  the  furthest  removed 
from  any  inhabited  center.  It  is  therefore  not 
astonishing  that  they  have  become  what  such  a 
law  of  proscription  would  naturally  make  them, 
coarse,  fierce  creatures,  dirty  and  shameless.  The 
same  is  true  of  the  Poulias  of  the  Malabar  coast, 
slaves  of  the  quasi- Kchatrya  Na'irs,  who  live  in 
an  even  more  wretched  state  of  abject  misery,  rele- 
gated to  the  unwholesome  rice-plantations,  lodged 
pell-mell  in  insanitary  huts,  fallen  so  low  that  they 
have  not  the  right  to  look  a  Hindu  of  an  inferior 


i32  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

caste  in  the  face,  so  that  some  of  them,  wandering 
in  the  mountains  or  perched  on  trees,  are  reduced, 
when  they  are  hungry,  to  howling  dismally  and 
striking  their  stomachs. 

Whatever  may  be  said  by  our  theosophists  of 
London  and  Paris,  who  are  in  love  with  esoteric 
Brahmanism  and  Vedantism,  such  religious  and 
social  excesses  condemn  a  great  people,  meant  for 
a  noble  and  glorious  destiny,  to  eternal  servitude. 

Agra!    The  marble  glory  of  Agra! 

A  white  frame,  of  a  polar  whiteness  that  fatigues 
the  retina,  through  which  move  in  a  confused  mass 
palanquins,  carts,  dervishes  with  beards  reddened 
with  henna  or  dyed  a  paradoxical  vermilion,  mad- 
men with  uneasy  eyes,  groaning  cripples,  stage- 
players  and  mountebanks  with  up-curled  Turkish 
slippers — like  those  of  the  Greek  evzones  at  the 
Tournoyante  Fustanelle — fakirs  holding  on  a  leash 
a  couple  of  fighting  rams  with  gilded  horns.  Few 
or  no  women.  How  typical  this  all  is  of  northern 
India! 

I  visit  the  Fort  at  once.  People  have  said  to  me : 
"You  will  be  astonished!"  I  am  more  than  that; 
I  am  overwhelmed,  yes,  positively  overwhelmed 
with  admiration  and  emotion.  Imagine  a  dream 
mosque  of  purest  white  marble,  with  exquisitely 
proportioned,  symmetrical  bell-towers,  with  vast 


TWO  MONGOLIAN  CAPITALS        133 

paved  courtyards,  with  aerial  colonnades  that  sup- 
port an  open-work  roof,  and  you  will  perhaps  have 
some  idea  of  what  my  eyes  are  contemplating  at 
this  moment.  There  in  this  Diwan-i-Am,  Shah 
Jahan,  the  Great  Mogul,  dispensed  justice  on  his 
black  throne;  here  in  this  Naginah  Musjid,  re- 
served for  the  ladies  of  the  court,  this  same  Shah 
Jahan  was  held  as  a  prisoner  of  state  by  his  own 
son,  Aurengzed ;  further  on,  in  that  little  octagonal 
pavilion  which  has  no  name  and  which  looks  out 
over  the  clayey  waters  of  the  Djumna,  Shah  Jahan 
— still  he,  always  he — died  with  his  nearly  sight- 
less eyes  fastened  upon  the  Taj-Mahal,  which  he 
had  built  for  the  glory  of  his  well-loved  wife, 
Arjmand  Banu,  surnamed  Muntaz-i-Mahal,  the 
Chosen  One  of  the  Palace. 

The  next  day,  in  memory  of  the  sublime  lover, 
I  make  a  pilgrimage  to  this  royal  mausoleum 
which  Sir  Edwin  Arnold  has  called  "the  marvel 
of  Agra,  the  crown  of  the  world,  the  tomb  with- 
out a  peer."  Others  have  called  it  "the  Dream  of 
Marble."  ...  It  is  a  large  building  of  white 
marble,  veined  with  pearl  gray  and  flanked  by 
four  minarets,  rising  from  a  platform  and  ap- 
proached by  a  straight  avenue  bordered  with  low 
cypresses  and  made  beautiful  with  fountain-basins, 
in  the  French  style.  In  fact,  we  can  recognize  here 


i34  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

the  signature  of  one  of  Le  Notre's  pupils,  one  of 
our  countrymen  named  Austin  de  Bordeaux, 
whom  Shah  Jahan  engaged  in  1630  as  architect  in 
chief.  At  his  order  and  at  great  expense  they 
brought  the  white  marble  from  Rajputana,  the 
yellow  marble  from  the  coasts  of  Nerbuddah,  the 
black  marble  from  Chaorkoh,  crystal  from  China, 
jasper  from  the  Punjab,  cornelian  from  Bagdad, 
turquoise  from  Thibet,  agate  from  Yunnan,  lapis- 
lazuli  and  sapphires  from  Ceylon,  coral  from 
Arabia,  diamonds  from  Punnah  (Bundelkund)  — 
many  of  these  precious  stones  were  torn  from  their 
settings  at  the  taking  of  Agra  by  the  British  troops 
— onyx  from  Persia  and  finally  amethysts  from  the 
Urals.  More  than  20,000  workmen  toiled  unin- 
terruptedly for  seventeen  years  at  this  tomb  of 
unearthly  beauty,  the  apotheosis  of  the  love  of  the 
most  munificent  of  husbands.  That  was  four  cen- 
turies ago.  .  .  .  And  today,  tomorrow,  forever 
human  eyes  will  fill  with  tears  at  the  sight  of  the 
two  tombs,  side  by  side,  in  which  these  perfect 
lovers  sleep  their  last  sleep. 

Still  other  mausoleums  add  to  the  glory  of  Agra, 
without,  however,  having  cost  those  who  built 
them  what  the  Taj  cost — 33  millions!  For  ex- 
ample, there  is  that  of  Prince  Etmad-Dowlah,  on 
the  hither  side  of  the  Djumna,  a  large  monument 


TWO  MONGOLIAN  CAPITALS        135 

with  four  towers  of  white  marble,  also  like  lace- 
work,  which  are  adorned  with  rich  incrustations 
and  delicate  sculptures;  and  there  is  that  of  Akbar 
the  Mogul  at  Sikandra,  of  an  extraordinary  maj- 
esty of  line  and  proportion.  A  few  miles  further 
on,  by  automobile,  I  reach  the  Mussulman  Pom- 
peii: Futtehpore  Sikri.  I  give  it  the  name  Mus- 
sulman Pompeii  intentionally,  because  its  found- 
ing by  Akbar  was  the  result  of  a  desire  expressed 
by  his  favorite.  She  complained  at  Agra  of  head- 
aches and  indispositions;  so  the  Emperor,  in  order 
to  please  her,  presently  decided  to  move  with  his 
court  and  take  up  his  residence  at  Futtehpore 
Sikri.  A  whole  forest  of  stone  rises  up  there,  in- 
tact, deserted,  abandoned,  for  this  caprice  of  the 
sultana  lasted  only  ten  years.  Everything  has  re- 
mained, in  order,  immutably  calm  and  beautiful. 
One  might  call  it  a  city  asleep.  .  .  . 

How  many  women,  even  those  whom  the  Roy- 
Soleil  loved,  have  been  the  object  of  a  worship  so 
gallant?  Perhaps  only  Scheherezade,  whom  Dr. 
J.  C.  Mardrus  has  resuscitated  for  us  in  his  incom- 
parable translation  of  the  Thousand  and  One 
Nights. 

This  Mongolian  epopee  of  the  Bahadur-Shahs, 
of  the  Jahangirs,  I  am  evoking  at  this  moment  at 
Delhi — at  Delhi  which  today  has  become  the  capi- 


136  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

tal  of  the  Empire,  the  victorious  rival  of  Calcutta. 

Through  the  gate  of  Lahore,  following  the  cren- 
elated walls — this  northern  India  is  certainly 
made  up  of  citadels — I  enter  the  Fort.  The  same 
magnificence  as  at  Agra,  the  same  abundance  of 
decorated,  filigreed,  carefully  carved  buildings. 
Here,  too,  Austin  de  Bordeaux  left  his  stamp,  par- 
ticularly on  that  flagged  pavement  on  the  Square 
of  the  Emperor,  which  represents  flowers  and  ani- 
mals on  a  black  background.  Elsewhere  there  are 
the  baths  of  the  courtesans ;  further  off  is  the  Moti- 
Musjid,  or  pearl  of  the  mosques,  ideally  white. 
Finally,  the  Diwan-i-Khas  draws  my  delighted 
glance.  Was  it  not  there  that  Akbar,  seated  on 
the  "Throne  of  the  Peacocks"  (at  present  in  the 
possession  of  the  Shah  of  Persia) ,  pronounced  that 
famous  sentence  which  his  successors  had  inlaid 
along  the  cornices:  "If  there  is  a  heaven  upon 
earth,  it  is  here.  It  is  here.  Here  alone." 

Another  royal  fantasy.  In  one  of  these  courts, 
the  name  of  which  I  have  forgotten,  a  great  square 
of  black  and  white  flagstones  served  as  a  checker- 
board for  the  same  emperor.  Black-skinned  or 
white-skinned  slaves,  real  knights,  the  Indian 
equivalent  for  bishops,  towers,  a  sultana  and  a 
vassal  prince  served  as  living  chessmen  for  the 
august  player  who,  from  an  elevated  seat,  directed 


TWO  MONGOLIAN  CAPITALS        137 

the  game  with  his  ivory  scepter  against  his  partner 
Dewan,  seated  on  the  other  side.  The  whole  as- 
tonished court  watched  this  unusual  contest  and 
applauded  the  fortunate  moves  of  the  Grand 
Mogul. 

There  are  so  many,  many  things  to  see  in  this 
Delhi,  justly  called  the  Rome  of  Asia,  that  if  the 
traveler  wishes  to  see  the  rest  of  India  he  is 
obliged  to  limit  somewhat  the  scope  of  his  investi- 
gations. To  tell  the  truth,  at  the  time  of  my  first 
visit  I  had  not  sufficiently  seen  Delhi  and  its  envi- 
rons ;  I  had  to  complete  my  visit  during  the  course 
of  my  second  trip  to  India.  So  I  pushed  on  to  the 
ruins  of  Katub-Minar,  where  rises  a  tower  of  pink 
granite  two  hundred  and  forty-one  feet  high  and 
with  three  hundred  and  seventy-nine  steps,  built 
in  the  twelfth  century  of  our  era  to  commemorate 
Mussulman  victories.  Very  stirring,  also,  is  that 
tomb  of  the  poet  Emir-Khusram,  whose  glory  ap- 
proaches that  of  Firdousi!  And  so  many  others, 
which  I  can  still  see  with  my  mind's  eye.  ...  A 
tedious  enumeration!  These  things  have  to  be 
seen.  Description  can  give  only  an  imperfect  idea 
of  them,  because  it  lacks  that  sun,  th^t  color,  that 
atmosphere  which  are  its  triumphant  aureole. 
This  is  the  case,  for  example,  with  the  Djumna- 
Musjid,  the  most  beautiful  mosque  in  the  world 


i38  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

(just  as  the  Taj  of  Agra  is  incontestably  the  great- 
est mausoleum  in  the  universe).  It  was  built  in 
1644  by  Shah  Jahan;  five  thousand  workmen  took 
part  in  the  construction  of  its  three  monumental 
stairways  of  forty  steps  each,  its  court,  in  which 
10,000  of  the  faithful  can  gather  about  the  foun- 
tain of  ablutions,  its  gateways,  its  domes,  and  its 
minarets,  from  which  the  muezzin  calls  out  his 
summons  at  the  hours  of  prayer.  A  revel  of 
marble,  a  debauch  of  porphyry  and  onyx!  And 
all  this  to  shelter  a  few  precious  relics — old  Ko- 
rans  of  the  twelfth  century,  slippers  of  the 
Prophet,  filled  with  jasmine,  carrying  the  imprint 
of  his  feet,  one  hair  from  his  mustache.  .  .  .  This 
veneration  does  not  make  me  smile.  I  am  too 
infinitely  respectful  of  religions  and  faiths  of 
which  the  sincerity  and  piety  are  above  question. 
The  Mohammedan  confession  in  India  is  so 
decked  with  splendor  that  one  forgets  its  puerili- 
ties and  extravagances  and  can  feel  for  it  only  a 
charmed  sympathy. 

Is  this  change  of  attitude  due  to  the  enthusiasm 
of  art  that  seizes  you  irresistibly  in  these  two  fairy- 
like  capitals,  or  to  the  intrinsic  virtue  of  Islam? 

Montaigne  would  have  said:  "How  can  I 
know?" 

And  Rabelais:  "Perhaps!" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

HOLY  MUTTRA 

In  the  heart  of  an  eclogue — Life  and  adventures  of  an  Aryan 
Melibee — The  eighth  avatar  of  Vishnu — A  gay  god — 
The  paradise  of  beasts — The  meeting  with  a  five-footed 
cow — Are  these  reptiles? — The  vegetarian  invocation  to 
Krishna. 

[ETWEEN  Agra  and  Delhi,  on  one 
of  the  banks  of  the  Djumna,  far 
from  the  profane  glance  of  the  im- 
pure meleks  (as  they  call  such 
sacrilegious  "eaters  of  cattle"  as 
ourselves)  rise  the  terraces  of  the 
pretty  and  picturesque  little  city  of  Muttra.  By 
some  miracle  it  has  escaped  the  attention  of  the 
organizers  of  "Tours  in  India."  The  Cook  par- 
ties never  or  rarely  include  it  in  their  itinerary. 
No  hotel,  no  restaurant,  no  bar,  not  even  postal 
cards!  A  unique  state  of  things  which  enchants 
me.  For  all  this,  we  must  not  be  egoists  and — 
since  a  high  official  in  Delhi  advised  me  secretly 

to  make  a  pilgrimage  to  this  holy  city  dedicated 

139 


i4o  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

to  the  memory  of  Krishna  the  Seducer — let  us 
share  with  our  readers  the  benefit  of  this  good 
fortune,  So  much  the  better  if  those  of  them  who 
are  going  to  travel  in  India  some  day  are  enabled 
to  enjoy,  as  I  did,  one  of  the  most  delicious  im- 
pressions of  freshness  in  this  country,  so  grand  but 
usually  so  somber  and  tormented. 

Nothing,  in  spite  of  all,  is  easier  than  to  get  to 
Muttra,  a  station  which,  I  repeat,  is  on  the  line 
that  connects  the  two  ancient  Mongol  capitals.  It 
is  a  good  thing  to  provide  ourselves  in  advance 
with  a  comfortable  and  substantial  lunch,  unless 
we  wish  to  brave  the  cruel  station  kitchen.  In  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  a  vehicle  of  sorts  will  go  down 
the  slope  which  leads  to  the  Djumna  and  deposit 
you  in  the  very  center  of  the  city.  This  city,  if 
I  may  be  pardoned  for  the  comparison,  is  the 
Paray-le-Monial  of  India,  Benares  remaining  al- 
ways and  in  spite  of  everything  the  Lourdes. 
There  are  the  same  crowds  of  pilgrims,  the  same 
sellers  of  votive  offerings  and  medals,  the  same 
veneration  and  the  same  conviction.  Only  the 
miracles  are  lacking.  But  on  the  other  hand,  what 
marvelous,  what  original  things  to  be  observed  and 
how  utterly  delightful  to  discover  them! 

...  It  was  a  great  many  hundred  years  ago. 
Vishnu,  the  preserving  principle  of  the  Trimourti, 


HOLY  MUTTRA  141 

decided  to  descend  once  more  from  the  heaven  of 
the  Gopis  to  the  earth.  It  was  his  eighth  avatar. 
Thus  says  the  Paramdtman: 

"He  made  himself  the  prince's  shepherd,  did  Krishna, 
To   reveal   the   divine   nature   to   the   tyrant   king, 
Kamga.  .  .  ." 

It  was  indeed  a  bucolic  transformation,  poetic 
and  gallant,  even  the  very  least  bit  licentious — very 
"eighteenth  century"  and  Watteauesque- — and 
which,  I  imagine,  must  have  been  a  great  rest  to 
Vishnu,  exhausted  and  worn  out  by  his  seven  pre- 
ceding avatars. 

You  may  judge  for  yourself:  i,  the  fish  Matsya, 
to  save  mankind  from  the  deluge;  2,  the  tortoise 
Kurma,  to  serve  as  a  solid  base  for  Mount  Merou; 
3,  the  wild  boar,  Varaha,  to  make  the  earth  rise 
out  of  his  back;  4,  half-man,  half-lion,  to  slay  the 
demon  Hiranyaka9ipou;  5,  the  dwarf  Vaman,  to 
conquer  the  world  from  the  giant  Bali;  6,  the 
Brahman  Paragou-Rama,  to  exterminate  the 
Kchatryas,  the  oppressors;  7,  Prince  Rama- 
Tchandra,  to  overthrow  Ravana,  king  of  the 
Rakchazas.  .  .  *  All  very  elusive  and  very  ter- 
rible tasks,  and,  in  any  case,  most  fatiguing. 

Now  the  idyll  opens,  and  the  god  gives  himself 
up  to  it  with  all  his  heart.  After  having  crushed 
the  wicked  serpent  Kali,  he  goes  all  over  the  eoun- 


i42  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

tryside  with  his  flocks,  pulls  their  garments  off 
the  bathing  girls,  talks  gallantry  to  the  shepherd- 
esses, plays  the  flute  for  them,  profits  by  their 
inattention  to  milk  their  cows  under  their  noses, 
and  finally  seduces  them  all,  or  nearly  all — 16,000, 
according  to  the  sacred  books.  Then  this  flighty 
lover,  this  Hindu  Lovelace,  would  have  begun  his 
sentimental  escapades  all  over  again,  if  Brahma 
and  Siva  had  not  energetically  restored  order.  Did 
not  one  of  his  last  pranks — if  I  may  be  pardoned 
the  irreverence  of  the  word — bring  him  a  severe 
reproof  from  his  peers?  Listen  to  this  verse  from 
the  Purdnas,  in  which  Krishna  deserts  nothing 
more  nor  less  than  a  goddess,  his  wife — I  should 
say  one  of  his  wives,  the  devi  Radha,  to  fly  to  the 
arms  of  a  simple  nymph,  the  delightful  Viraja! 
This  is  too  much!  .  .  .  And  the  incorrigible  fel- 
low is  summarily  recalled  to  propriety  and  to  heav- 
en. Vishnu's  only  punishment  will  be  having  to 
repair,  a  few  centuries  later,  the  too  human  follies 
of  that  bad  fellow,  his  representative,  at  the  time 
when  he  is  stigmatizing  Buddhism  the  liberator, 
Buddhism  the  abolisher  of  castes,  Buddhism  the 
rival  which,  in  its  turn,  is  to  conquer  the  world. 

"From  a  watcher  of  flocks,  he  made  himself  a  Buddhist 

monk, 
In  order  to  preach  false  doctrines  to  the  impious.  .  .  ." 


HOLY  MUTTRA  143 

Truly,  now,  do  you  not  find  it  amusing,  the 
earthly  adventure  of  this  gay  god,  who  is  pugna- 
cious, something  of  a  practical  joker  and  very 
much  of  a  rake?  It  is  Pan,  breathing  in  his  flute, 
or  Apollo  singing.  .  .  .  Heu!  Woe  to  you,  pass- 
ing beauties,  who  listen  to  him. 

Muttra  celebrates  all  this,  Muttra  that  knew 
the  joyous  bathing  parties  of  the  Aryan  Melibce 
and  the  prolonged  siestas  under  the  tender  leaves 
of  the  moussendes  and  the  flowering  ixoras,  and  the 
mad  pursuits  of  the  brown-skinned  dryads, 
crowned  with  jasmines,  cinnamon  flowers  and 
white  roses,  the  moonlight  talks  when  the  divine 
shepherd  with  the  indigo  skin — as  the  old  minia- 
tures show  him — held  under  the  charm  of  his  per- 
suasive tongue  the  village  girls  and  the  great  white 
zebus  kneeling  around  him.  A  fresh  oasis  in 
which  the  imagination  rests  and  relaxes  after  the 
fevers  and  the  ghostly  oppressions  of  Ellora,  that 
somber  crypt  with  its  nightmare  pandemonium.  I 
shall  think  of  it  later,  this  Eden-like  Muttra,  when 
I  explore  the  putrid  ghats  of  Benares  and  the  sin- 
ister caverns  of  Madura.  For  me  Muttra  will 
always  exhale  the  gentle  and  intoxicating  perfume 
of  an  eclogue: 

"...  sub  teymine  fagi" 


I44  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

And  what  a  touching  intimacy — others  might 
say  promiscuity — of  beasts  with  men!  .  .  .  Be- 
cause Krishna  petted  them,  these  dumb  and  hum- 
bler brothers,  the  people  revere  them  today.  In 
the  market-place,  little  prying  foxes  and  white- 
headed  vultures  share  fraternally  the  scraps  of 
food  that  lie  about  under  the  paternal  and  debonair 
eyes  of  the  gray  buffaloes.  Up  above,  on  the  roofs 
of  the  houses,  swarms  of  monkeys  (the  city  num- 
bers more  than  10,000  of  them)  gravely  hunt  for 
fleas.  In  a  few  moments  they  will  come  gambol- 
ing down  from  the  cornices  to  collect  their  scraps 
from  the  human  feasts.  I  shall  touch  them,  I 
shall  almost  caress  them — almost — for  one  would 
think  they  suspected  that  I  am  not  one  of  their 
own  people,  I  who  in  the  Occident  shut  up  their 
kindred  in  barred  prisons!  .  .  .  But  how  amusing 
they  are  to  watch,  these  four-handed  beasts,  so 
"natural"  in  their  grimaces,  their  suppleness,  their 
malice,  and  also  in-  the  maternal  rocking  of  their 
little  ones. 

Noon.  I  pass  a  procession  in  rags  and  tatters. 
A  strolling  showman  is  leading  about  the  miracle 
of  his  five-footed  calf  ("a  teratological  foot  that 
protrudes  from  its  back").  Loungers  accompany 
him.  Not  gamins  but  full-grown  men,  old  men,  a 
few  women,  their  amber-colored  arms  holding 


DELHI — THE   DIWANIKHAS   OF   THE   GREAT    MOGULS 


DELHI — THE  FIRST  IMPERIAL  ENCLOSURE   AND  THE  GATE  OF  LAHORE 


MUTTRA — BATHING    ON    THE    BANKS    OF    THE    DJUMNA 


MUTTRA — THE     MARKET-PLACE 


HOLY  MUTTRA  145 

copper  jars  on  their  heads  over  their  twisted  black 
hair.  This  procession  makes  its  way  towards  the 
Djumna,  where  the  calf  is  going  to  drink.  Very 
well,  let  us  follow  it,  since  at  Muttra  the  temples 
are,  so  to  speak,  "on  strjke"  and  it  is  the  river 
which  sanctifies  and  listens  to  prayers.  We  go 
down  obscure  little  streets,  little  nameless  streets 
which  enchant  me ;  then  the  quay.  Laughing  girls, 
wrapped  in  their  dripping  saris,  are  returning 
from  their  ablutions,  a  pomegranate  flower,  red 
as  a  wound,  in  the  corner  of  their  lips.  Let  us 
make  haste!  Suppose  they  are  the  last  I  .  .  . 

But  now,  close  to  the  last  steps  which  are  lapped 
by  the  sacred  waters,  there  rises  a  confused  com- 
motion: bubbles  of  air  rise  and  break  on  the  sur- 
face, the  stir  increases,  then  there  appear  thin 
necks,  surmounted  by  the  heads  of  reptiles.  .  .  . 
Instinctively  I  recoil.  The  fear  of  the  cobra  is 
before  all  else  the  beginning  of  wisdom.  But  I 
quickly  discover  my  mistake :  my  pseudo-serpents 
are  only  inoffensive,  gluttonous  freshwater  turtles. 
There  are  hundreds,  thousands,  myriads  of  them, 
despite  the  voracity  of  the  crocodiles  and  the 
gavials.  The  most  audacious  now  climb  up  on  to 
the  flags,  between  my  feet,  between  the  four  normal 
feet  of  the  miraculous  calf.  Nothing  could  sur- 
prise that  calf ;  it  drinks  its  water  ingenuously,  in 


i46  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

little  draughts,  without  hurrying,  like  a  calf  who 
knows  what  is  due  him  for  his  quasi-divine  de- 
formity; and  the  liquid  falling  from  his  disgust- 
ing lips  is  at  once  collected  by  ten  trembling  hands, 
armed  with  goblets.  I  turn  with  a  slight  repulsion 
from  these  drinkers,  these  mad  hierophants. 

And  then  this  spontaneous  generation  of  tor- 
toises attracts  and  amazes  me  so! 

Suddenly,  at  my  side,  a  soft  singing  begins,  a 
nasal  humming  through  a  closed  mouth.  The 
bubbling  begins  again,  a  new  crop  of  flat  heads 
rise  from  the  yellow  water:  stretched  necks,  tooth- 
less mouths,  opening  to  receive  before  they  fall 
the  daily  doles  of  boiled  rice  flung  to  them  by  the 
priests,  with  the  august  gesture  of  sowers  of  grain. 
****** 

Kind  and  simple  folk,  observing  to  the  letter 
the  charitable  doctrine  of  the  Baghavadgita,  O 
people  of  Muttra,  who  protect  and  give  lodging  to 
your  monkeys,  who  feed  your  foxes,  your  vultures 
and  your  tortoises,  deign  to  receive  here  the  praise 
of  an  infamous  melek! 

And  thou,  Krishna,  may  thy  Virgilian  example 
disgust  me  forever  with  the  sacrilegious  beefsteak! 


CHAPTER  XV 


INDIA  ONCE  REVOLTED  HERE 

In  the  country  of  Nana-Sahib — Sou/enirs  of  the  Insurrection  of 
1857 — The  massacre  at  the  Bridge  of  Cawnpore — At  the 
scene  of  the  drama — The  heroic  resistance  of  the  garrison 
of  Lucknow — When  will  the  complete  pacification  take 
place  ? 

VER  since  the  Imperial  Govern- 
ment took  the  place  of  the  old 
India  Company,  assuming  the  gen- 
eral direction  of  affairs  and  the  ex- 
ploitation of  the  country,  no  seri- 
ous revolt  has  taken  place  among 
these  vast  agglomerations  of  peoples,  none,  that  is, 
except  the  famous  insurrection  of  1857,  called  the 
Sepoy  Mutiny. 

Because  the  Hindus,  Mohammedans  or  Brah- 
manists  have  attempted  only  once,  at  the  instiga- 
tion of  such  a  daring  Mahratta  agitator  as  Nana- 
Sahib,  to  free  themselves  from  the  European  yoke, 
should  we  conclude  that  there  has  been  an  actual 
pacification  of  the  peoples  of  this  peninsula?  It 

147 


i48  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

would  be  bold  to  affirm  this.  There  still  remains 
in  these  same  Mahratta  provinces  of  Gwalior  and 
Baroda,  and  also  in  Rajputana  and  Bengal,  a  seri- 
ous ferment  of  hatred  which  is  developing  and 
reveals  itself  in  the  outward  signs  of  an  ill-dissimu- 
lated phobia  against  their  alien  guests.  A  proof 
of  this  was  the  Shwadeshist  movement  of  the 
Babus,  at  the  time  of  the  recent  troubles  over  the 
Partition,  or  the  administrative  separation,  of 
Assam  from  Bengal.  Everyone  knows  that  there 
exist  in  Calcutta  secret  societies,  the  ramifications 
of  which  extend  as  far  as  Burmah.  Propaganda 
by  deeds,  direct  action,  political  assassination  have 
been  widely  advocated.  Before  the  Great  War  of 
1914-1918,  not  a  month  passed  without  a  bomb's 
bursting  in  the  capital,  without  a  train's  beijig  de- 
railed on  one  of  the  great  lines,  without  a  revolver 
being  fired  in  the  heart  of  the  Bengal  University 
itself,  leading  to  disturbances  and  street  riots.  The 
formidable  world  conflagration  suddenly  revealed 
to  us  an  India  remaining  loyal,  save  for  a  few 
insignificant  troubles  in  the  northeast  and  on  the 
Afghan' frontier,  along  that  same  Khyber  Pass  of 
which  I  have  already  spoken.  In  this  way  Great 
Britain  was  able  to  put  to  the  test,  as  France  did 
with  its  Barbary  possessions,  the  loyalty  of  the 
Brahman,  Buddhist,  Mohammedan  and  Jain  pop- 


INDIA  ONCE  REVOLTED  HERE       149 

ulation  of  its  vast  and  rich  colony.  This  means 
that,  more  than  ever,  she  will  wish  her  vassals  to 
benefit  from  that  great  pax  Britannica,  the  excel- 
lent results  of  which  I  have  already  praised 
elsewhere. 

Nevertheless,  who  knows  whether  these  same 
Sepoys,  whose  exploits  in  Belgium  and  France, 
as  well  as  in  Palestine  and  Mesopotamia,  we  have 
watched  sympathetically,  might  not,  if  they  had 
wished  it,  in  1857,  especially  if  they  had  known 
how,  have  liberated  India  forever  from  her  Occi- 
dental masters?  .  .  .  We  can  say  today  that  all 
they  lacked  was  continuity  of  effort,  the  mutual 
help  of  their  chiefs,  solidarity  among  their  re- 
ligious parties,  in  short,  order  and  organization. 
I  am  thinking  of  all  this  in  the  express  which  car- 
ries me  towards  the  two  cities  which  formerly 
revolted,  Cawnpore  and  Lucknow. 

Cawnpore!  A  mournful  name  that  always 
sounds  in  English  ears  like  the  echo  of  one  of  the 
most  frightful  dramas  in  history!  .  .  .  We  re- 
member that  the  native  troops  of  this  garrison  re- 
volted in  1857,  following  some  offense  to  their  re- 
ligious convictions.  The  deposed  prince,  Nana- 
Sahib,  placed  himself  at  the  head  of  the  rebels  and 
came  to  besiege  the  British  troops  at  Cawnpore, 
commanded  by  General  Wheeler.  The  wily  ra- 


150  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

jah,  impatient  over  the  time  lost  because  of  this 
unexpected  resistance,  proposed  to  the  besieged 
that  they  should  receive  the  honors  of  war,  boats 
to  take  them  as  far  as  Allahabad,  as  well  as  suf- 
ficient provisions  to  feed  them  until  they  reached 
there.  These  overtures,  at  first  received  with  some 
distrust,  were  finally  accepted  by  General  Wheeler 
under  the  protection  of  a  solemn  oath  by  Nana- 
Sahib,  who  swore  on  a  cow's  tail  that  he  would 
loyally  observe  the  conditions  of  the  surrender. 
But  let  us  leave  the  story  to  one  of  the  eye- 
witnesses: "On  the  morning  of  June  27,"  he  re- 
lates, "the  women,  the  children  and  the  wounded 
were  carried  by  elephant-back  to  the  quay,  where 
about  twenty  boats,  large  and  small,  were  waiting 
for  them.  The  able-bodied  men  arrived  at  the 
same  point  after  having  filed  with  arms  and  equip- 
ment past  the  besieging  army.  When  they  had 
embarked  all  flung  themselves  with  a  sort  of  joy 
upon  the  food  that  had  been  prepared  for  them, 
and  abandoned  themselves  to  the  current  of  the 
river.  Then  a  long  distance  battery,  which  had 
been  got  ready,  was  unmasked  along  the  shore  and 
began  to  fire  upon  them.  The  smaller  boats  sank, 
others  caught  fire.  Horsemen,  plunging  into  the 
river,  sabered  most  of  the  drowning  ones  who  tried 
to  save  themselves  by  swimming.  Only  the  craft 


INDIA  ONCE  REVOLTED  HERE       151 

on  which  was  the  general  was  able  to  use  oars  and 
get  away.  Unfortunately,  the  boat  went  aground  a 
short  distance  from  there  and  those  who  were  on 
it,  sixty  Europeans,  twenty-five  women,  a  little  boy 
and  three  young  girls,  were  taken  back  as  prisoners 
to  Cawnpore." 

Then  occurred  the  atrocious  crime,  the  slaugh- 
ter without  parallel  in  the  history  of  colonial  con- 
quests, the  frightful  Massacre  of  the  Well,  of 
which  an  English  officer  who  arrived  a  few  hours 
too  late  has  given  us  this  haunting  description: 

"Hardly  had  we  entered  Cawnpore,"  he  says, 
"when  we  rushed  to  find  those  poor  women  whom 
we  knew  were  in  the  hands  of  the  odious  Nana; 
but  we  soon  learned  of  the  frightful  execution. 
Tortured  by  a  terrible  thirst  for  vengeance  and 
filled  with  the  thought  of  the  frightful  sufferings 
these  unhappy  victims  had  had  to  endure,  we  felt 
strange  and  savage  ideas  awake  in  us.  Burning 
with  anger  and  half  mad  we  rushed  toward  the 
terrible  place  of  martyrdom.  Coagulated  blood, 
mixed  with  nameless  debris,  covered  the  ground 
of  the  little  room  in  which  they  had  been  impris- 
oned and  rose  to  our  ankles.  Long  tresses  of  silky 
hair,  torn  shreds  of  dresses,  children's  little  shoes 
and  playthings  were  strewn  over  the  befouled 
earth.  The  walls,  smeared  with  blood,  bore  the 


i52  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

traces  of  frightful  agonies.  I  picked  up  a  little 
prayer-book  the  first  page  of  which  bore  these 
touching  inscriptions:  '27  June,  left  the  boats.  .  .  . 
7  July>  prisoners  of  Nana;  fatal  day!'  But  these 
were  by  no  means  the  only  horrors  that  awaited 
us.  Far  more  horrible  still  was  the  sight  of  that 
deep  and  narrow  well  in  which  were  heaped  up 
the  mutilated  remains  of  these  tender  creatures." 

I  was  anxious  to  visit  the  sinister  spot.  In  the 
Memorial  Garden  there  rises,  in  the  midst  of  the 
most  splendid  roses  imaginable,  a  simple  cross  of 
white  marble  which  marks  the  spot  where  those 
unfortunates  were  murdered  before  being  flung, 
still  quivering,  in  the  cistern  a  few  steps  away. 
Today  the  curb  of  the  well  is  surmounted  by  an 
angel,  holding  palms  in  its  arms,  a  touching  statue 
which  the  Italian  sculptor,  Marochetti,  dedicated 
to  the  memory  of  the  martyrs. 

Less  mournful  but  quite  as  eloquent  are  the 
relics  of  the  heroic  English  resistance  at  Lucknow, 
the  ancient  capital  of  the  kingdom  of  Oudh.  How 
many  souvenirs  there  are  of  the  mutiny  in  this 
residency,  this  Sikandra  Bagh,  where  2,000  Sepoys 
were  killed,  and  in  this  Dilluska  Palace  where 
General  Havelock  died! 

It  was  a  veteran  of  the  siege,  Sergeant  Ireland, 
who  did  me  the  honors  of  the  ruined  but  glorious 


INDIA  ONCE  REVOLTED  HERE       153 

bombarded  citadel.  Everything  has  remained  un- 
changed in  its  place.  It  is  a  spot  of  pilgrimage 
and  of  patriotic  commemoration.  From  the  mo- 
ment of  entering,  under  the  gate  called  Bailey 
Guard,  we  have  the  feeling'of  a  desperate  struggle, 
mad,  heroic,  against  an  enemy  superior  in  numbers 
and  assisted  by  fire.  What  astonishing  strength  of 
character,  what  extraordinary  tenacity  on  the  part 
of  the  besieged,  surrounded  and  vastly  outnum- 
bered, as  we  were  in  1870  at  Chateaudun! 

My  guide  explains  to  me  how,  surprised  by  the 
revolt,  the  Europeans  living  in  the  city  had  taken 
refuge  in  this  residency.  The  feeble  British  gar- 
rison, commanded  by  Sir  Henry  Lawrence,  had 
made  haste  to  join  them.  The  palace,  a  three- 
story  brick  building,  was  in  no  way  suitable  for  a 
defense;  nevertheless,  the  refugees  maintained 
themselves  there  valiantly  for  five  months,  under 
the  fire  of  bombs  which  had  reduced  the  dwelling 
to  a  thin  shell,  crumbling  and  smoking.  When 
General  Campbell  arrived  with  reinforcements 
under  the  walls  of  Lucknow,  and  after  a  two  days' 
battle  (the  issue  of  which  was  for  some  time  uncer- 
tain) had  succeeded  in  delivering  the  besieged, 
Sir  Henry  Lawrence  and  the  greater  part  of  his 
intrepid  companions  had  paid  for  the  defense  of 
the  place  with  their  lives. 


I54  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

How  far  away  this  all  seems  to  me,  in  spite  of 
the  anecdotes  of  the  veteran  who  accompanies  me! 
Such  a  change  has  taken  place  in  the  soul  of  the 
Indians  since  these  events,  that  I  find  myself  won- 
dering if  the  domination  of  the  English  is  not  as 
final  here  as  our  own  in  Algeria  and  Tunis. 

I  should  not  wish  to  give  even  the  slightest  of- 
fense to  my  Bengali  and  other  nationalist  friends 
in  India,  but,  between  ourselves,  I  cannot  see  how 
a  change  in  the  immediate  order  of  things  would 
immediately  benefit  them.  India  is  not  a  coun- 
try, it  is  a  mosaic  of  countries,  far  more  so  than 
even  the  Central  Empires.  What  I  do  believe  is 
that  Great  Britain  will  not  fail  to  show  herself 
infinitely  grateful  to  her  Asiatic  vassals  for  the 
help  they  gave  her  in  1914-1918  on  the  battlefields 
of  Europe  and  Mesopotamia.  What  I  believe  is 
that  this  same  Great  Britain  will  also  not  forget 
that  the  troops  and  the  populations  remaining  in 
Indian  territory  refused  to  profit  by  this  unique 
occasion  to  rise  against  their  sovereign.  Finally 
I  believe  that  King  George  V — the  first  to  dare 
to  be  crowned  Emperor  at  Delhi — will  deign  to 
extend  to  his  faithful  subjects  a  still  more  open 
and  friendly  hand,  and  one  stripped  forever  of 
the  ancient  iron  gauntlet. 

On  that  day  there  will  be  in  the  land  of  Brahma 


INDIA  ONCE  REVOLTED  HERE       155 

the  same  great  joy  that  there  was  in  South  Africa 
on  the  return  of  Botha,  the  conqueror  of  the  Ger- 
man forces  of  Southwest  Africa,  hero  and  pro- 
tagonist of  the  definitive  Anglo-Boer  union. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


BRAHMANS  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  GANGES 

Benares  in  the  morning — Cremations  of  the  upper,  middle  and 
lower  castes — The  horror  of  the  funeral  pyres  of  the 
Pariahs — The  Brahman  lives  off  the  altar — Priests  of  the 
Temple  of  the  Cows  and  the  Temple  of  the  Monkeys — 
Yogis  and  Parahamsas — Sublime  words  of  the  Bag- 
havadgita. 

O  speak  of  the  Brahmans,  is  not 
that  to  speak  of  Benares,  the  soil 
from  which  they  spring? 

Benares  is  the  most  astonishing, 
the  most  formidable  fact  that  can 
be  imagined.  One  must  have  seen 
Benares  in  the  morning,  as  one  must  have  con- 
templated Stamboul  at  noon,  and  Venice  at  sun- 
set. Light  mists  float  and  gather  above  the  yel- 
low waves  of  the  Ganges,  in  which  have  already 
been  mingled,  as  they  passed  Allahabad,  the  privi- 
leged ashes  of  the  dead.  Along  the  ghats  or  the 
terraced  quays,  a  whole  population  is  busy  with 
its  ablutions:  old  men  bent  with  age,  men  with 

vigorous,  bronzed  bodies,  women  and  young  girls 

156 


07V  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  GANGES    157 

with  sinuous  shapes,  amphoras  on  their  heads, 
laughing,  turbulent  children.  Further  off,  there 
are  the  widows,  shaved  according  to  the  rite  of 
Siva  and  going  their  way  sadly,  silently,  despised, 
almost  cursed,  bowed  under  the  weight  of  imme- 
morial prejudice. 

On  the  banks  the  priests  have  already  lighted, 
a  few  at  a  time,  the  funeral  pyres  that  will  soon 
reduce  to  ashes  the  miserable  cast-off  garment  of 
our  earthly  pride.  Here  I  am  again  struck  by 
the  persistence  of  the  castes,  castes  that  are  so 
rigorous  and  uncompromising  in  the  affairs  of 
everyday  living.  On  these  funeral  pyres  their 
proud  hierarchy  still  makes  itself  felt  after  life. 
Thus  at  Benares  there  are  three  different  sorts  of 
cremations:  those  of  the  Brahmans  and  Kcha- 
tryas;  those  of  the  middle  classes — Vaisyas  and 
Soudras;  finally  those  of  the  lower  castes,  the 
Pariahs,  Tchemmas  and  others. 

The  cremation  of  the  dead  member  of  an  upper 
caste  includes  many  special  rites,  prayers,  incanta- 
tions and  other  practices.  The  corpse  is  first 
brought  on  a  litter,  covered  with  a  large  shroud, 
white  for  men,  pink  for  women.  Still  enveloped 
in  his  winding  sheet,  the  dead  man  is  stretched  by 
the  river-side,  the  head  and  trunk  resting  on  the 
bank,  the  lower  limbs  bathed  by  the  water,  for 


i58  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

purification.  During  this  time,  the  funeral  Brah- 
mans  finish  arranging  in  rectangular  and  symmet- 
rical order  the  pieces  of  wood  which  compose  the 
burning-ghat.  The  corpse  is  then  laid  upon  it, 
while  other  faggots  are  placed  above  forming  a 
second  bed.  Generally,  the  whole  is  so  harmoni- 
ously arranged  that  the  dead  man  almost  disap- 
pears under  the  mass.  The  priests  then  approach 
and  pronounce  the  liturgical  prayers,  while  they 
sprinkle  the  fire  with  melted  butter  and  sweet- 
smelling  oils.  Young  officiating  priests  throw  In- 
dian pinks  and  jasmine  petals  into  the  flames. 
Then  once  more  and  without  any  break,  the  priests 
add  the  sticks,  the  faggots  and  the  kindling  neces- 
sary to  feed  the  devastating  fire.  For  once  the 
cremation  has  begun  it  must  not  be  interrupted. 
If  the  fire  went  out  or  died  down  it  would  be  con- 
sidered as  a  bad  omen. 

The  funeral  pyres  reserved  for  the  lower  castes 
are  composed  only  of  faggots,  roots  and  left-over 
logs  not  yet  attacked  by  the  fire,  gathered  con- 
fusedly together,  without  order  or  elegance,  in  a 
nearly  square  pile,  on  the  river  bank,  far  from  the 
palace  and  the  votive  temples.  One  young  Brah- 
man suffices  to  light  the  fire  and  pronounce  the 
necessary  incantations.  The  relatives,  the  friends 
and  the  domestic  animals  are  grouped  about  him 


OAT  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  GANGES    159 

in  an  impassive  attitude  that  is  intensely  Oriental, 
and  watch  with  great  serenity  the  work  of 
destruction. 

More  sinister  and  gruesome  are  those  I  shall 
call  the  famine  pyres  on  which  are  heaped  up  pell- 
mell  emaciated,  contorted  skeletons  of  bodies, 
hideous  to  see,  naked,  their  faces  twisted  with 
agony,  with  glassy  eyes  no  hand  has  closed.  These 
last  must  content  themselves  with  what  others  have 
left,  half-burned  faggots,  knotty,  smoking  roots, 
which  the  flame  has  been  powerless  to  attack,  arm- 
fuls  of  damp  straw,  giving  forth  an  acrid  and  suf- 
focating smoke.  For  these  there  are  no  incanta- 
tions, no  fire  sparkles  joyfully,  the  incineration  is 
long  and  slow,  lasting  not  merely  for  hours  but  at 
times  for  one  or  two  days.  No  one  comes  to  claim 
these  ignored,  accursed,  disinherited  ashes. 

Such  is  the  inexorable  decree  of  Karma. 

We  may  well  imagine  that  these  cremations  and 
other  ritualistic  ceremonies  do  not  fail  to  bring 
in  to  the  Brahman  a  pretty  penny.  Of  this  priest 
it  may  be  truly  said  that  he  lives  off  the  altar,  with- 
out, however,  attaining  to  the  princely  tithes  of 
certain  orthodox  popes  of  the  former  Holy  Rus- 
sian Empire.  At  Benares,  the  number  of  these 
officiators  is  almost  incalculable;  even  approxi- 
mate statistics  have  never  been  compiled.  There 


160  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

are  the  funeral  Brahmans  of  whom  I  have  just 
spoken,  there  are  Brahmans  by  the  thousand  for 
the  temples  in  the  city,  without  counting  those  who 
serve  private  altars  and  sanctuaries,  there  are 
Brahmans  charged  with  watching  over  the  upkeep 
of  the  sacred  animals,  and  finally,  there  are  Yogis, 
or  living  saints. 

I  have  spoken,  in  connection  with  the  pilgrimage 
of  Krishna  to  Muttra  on  the  Djumna,  of  the  in- 
violable respect  of  the  Hindus  for  all  manifesta- 
tions of  life,  and  especially  of  animal  life.  At 
Muttra,  the  traveler  notices  the  presence  of  many 
thousands  of  monkeys  living  a  sort  of  common  life 
with  the  inhabitants,  sharing  their  food  and  their 
dwellings — just  as  at  noon  great  jars  of  boiled  rice 
are  thrown  to  feed  the  tortoises  on  the  river  ter- 
races. At  Benares  it  is  something  else :  the  Para- 
dise of  Cows,  in  the  full  meaning  of  the  phrase! 
These  blissful  beasts  stroll  over  the  conquered 
country,  along  the  ghats  or  through  the  dark,  dirty 
little  streets;  at  their  pleasure,  they  impudently 
steal  vegetables  under  the  noses  and  beards  of  the 
merchants,  who  watch  them  with  good-natured 
smiles,  thanking  the  divinity  for  the  signal  honor 
of  her  visit. 

Nor  is  this  all ;  the  horned  guests  of  the  Temple 
of  Cows  at  Benares  have  their  regularly  appointed 


RUINS    OF    THE    LUCKNOVV    MUTINY 


THE   PALACE    AT   LUCKNOW 


BENARES — A   LOW-CASTE    CREMATION 


A    MORNING    AT    BENARES 


ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  GANGES    161 

priests  and  are  the  object,  on  the  part  of  the  faith- 
ful, of  a  thousand  marks  of  veneration  and  love. 
They  feed  them  with  aromatic  herbs,  they  bring 
them  offerings,  they  wash  them  with  water  from 
the  Ganges  drawn  in  richly  chased  vessels  of  cop- 
per and  silver.  Finally,  it  is  not  rare  to  see  certain 
fanatics  gliding  through  the  dark  colonnades  of 
porphyry  and  marble  under  the  domes  with  their 
massive  golden  roofs,  watching  for  the  peaceful 
animals  to  give  way  to  the  most  necessary  and 
prosaic  of  needs.  .  .  .  Then  there  is  a  mad  rush 
for  the  vfresh  dung;  some  smear  their  faces  and 
hands  with  it;  some  go  so  far  as  to  swallow  a  bit 
of  it;  still  others  carry  it  off  in  reliquaries. 

Beside  these  ultra-realistic  and  repulsive  spec- 
tacles— it  is  true  that  the  Parsee  teaching  also  has 
such  aberrations— I  have  had  occasion  to  notice 
many  touching  acts  of  piety  and  kindness  to  old, 
infirm  or  sick  animals.  One  day  when  I  was  de- 
scending the  steps  to  the  Ganges,  I  saw  an  old, 
half -paralyzed  cow  (the  bovine  race  reaches  here 
what  Hugo  calls  "the  age  of  a  great-grand- 
parent") dragging  herself  painfully  along  by  her 
front  legs  to  get  a  drink  from  the  waters  of  the 
great  river.  When  she  had  drunk,  feeling  she  had 
become  heavier,  this  bovine  "Burgrave"  attempted 
in  vain  to  return  to  the  spot  which  she  had  for- 


i6i  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

merly  occupied.  At  once  four  young  pilgrims,  who 
seemed  to  belong  to  a  good  bourgeois  caste,  hur- 
ried to  the  animal,  lifted  it,  and  succeeded  by  one 
means  or  another  in  getting  it  back  to  its  original 
position.  I  offer  this  fact,  without  comment,  to 
the  president  of  our  Society  for  the  Prevention  of 
Cruelty  to  Animals. 

Another  curiosity  of  Benares  is  the  Temple  of 
Monkeys.  Several  hundred  years  ago  the  great 
temple  raised  to  the  goddess  Durga  was  invaded 
one  day  by  a  troup  of  monkeys  come,  no  one  knew 
how,  from  the  near-by  jungle.  The  quadrumanes 
installed  themselves  even  in  the  sanctuary  and  on 
the  borders  of  the  fishpond,  with  its  encircling 
steps,  where  slept  a  noisome,  greenish  water.  The 
superstition  of  the  Hindus  was  struck  by  this 
prodigy;  they  saw  in  the  presence  of  the  monkeys 
a  heavenly  embassy  sent  by  Hanuman,  the  monkey- 
god  and  ally  of  men,  whose  combats  and  warrior 
virtues  were  celebrated  by  the  sacred  books.  From 
that  day  forward  the  altar  of  the  goddess  was 
deserted;  prayers  and  pilgrimages  were  devoted  no 
longer  to  Durga  the  Dark,  but  to  Hanuman  the 
Valorous.  Today,  this  population  of  monkeys  has 
risen  to  several  hundreds  of  grimacing  and  ges- 
ticulating families;  and  it  is  one  of  the  tourist's 
amusements,  in  passing  through  Benares,  to  bring 


OJV  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  GANGES    163 

them  fruits  and  dainties,  which  they  share  fra- 
ternally with  the  goats  and  pigs,  under  the  eyes 
of  their  two  Brahman  guardians. 

Above  these  inferior  priests,  dominating  them 
with  all  his  serene  and  somewhat  disdainful  pride, 
rises  the  noble  figure  of  the  Yogi,  the  living  saint, 
the  Master,  he  who  really  possesses  the  power  of 
assembling  the  elements  and  performing  miracles. 
He  is  by  no  means  the  servant  of  the  animals  nor 
does  he  make  any  sale  or  display  of  his  office  or 
his  science;  he  does  not  market  it  or  make  any 
money  out  of  it  But  modest,  or  conscious  of  his 
formidable  power,  he  hides  or  isolates  himself 
from  humankind.  You  no  longer,  or  almost  never, 
meet  him  in  the  low  plains  of  the  peninsula  of 
Hindustan;  you  must  go  in  search  of  him  to  dis- 
cover him  in  his  almost  inaccessible  retreats  among 
the  high  mountains  of  Kashmir  or  Thibet,  where 
he  is  learning  to  become,  little  by  little,  the  Para- 
hamsa,  the  Sage. 

Ripened  by  prayer  and  solitary  meditation,  mas- 
tering his  senses  and  abolishing  Desire,  which  is 
useless  to  him  since  in  him,  as  a  pantheist,  there 
resides  the  essence  of  all  things,  he  turns  his  will 
exclusively  toward  the  final  evolution.  A  de- 
tached fragment  of  the  Great  Whole,  he  tends  to 
mount  up  by  stages  to  his  primitive  and  divine 


164  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

state,  and  in  order  to  attain  it  he  seeks  for  the 
primal  cause  of  the  world.  By  means  of  his  eyes 
man  is  master  of  Space;  the  Yogi,  by  means  of  his 
science,  creates  a  new  sense  which  makes  him  mas- 
ter of  Time.  He  seeks  to  penetrate  to  the  sealed 
mysteries  of  Matter  by  means  of  pure  Thought, 
and  in  actual  practice  by  means  of  magic  and  in- 
cantations. This  is  the  secret  of  the  mentrams,  the 
mentrams  that  preserve  one  from  the  stings  of 
bees,  from  the  venom  of  serpents  and  the  claws  of 
wild  beasts ;  mentrams  which,  they  say,  have  power 
over  domestic  animals,  over  rivers,  over  the  ele- 
ments. By  means  of  them  the  Yogi  can  reach  even 
the  Unknowable.  The  same  procedure  was  car- 
ried on  in  antiquity  by  the  Egyptian  adorers  of 
Horus,  the  Greek  mystagogues  of  Ceres,  a  few 
philosophers,  philanthropists  and  thaumaturgists 
like  Pythagoras,  Apollonius  of  Tyana,  Buddha, 
Rama-Krishna,  and  other  occultists  who  have  had 
the  certainty  of  the  Divine  Experience.  These 
supermen  cross  the  threshold  of  the  Esoteric  Doc- 
trine, they  have  the  intuition  of  universal  knowl- 
edge and  probably  approach  Brahma  the  Neuter, 
the  Ineffable,  the  Absolute,  of  which  Brahma,  the 
masculine  and  creative  expression,  has  only  a 
single  temple  in  India — at  Polkhar,  near  Ajmeere 


OAT  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  GANGES    165 

— Brahma  the  Infinite,  whose  name  the  Hindus 
never  pronounce  without  trembling. 

Would  you  believe  it?  The  Yogi  is  the  object 
of  such  veneration  that  at  his  death  he  escapes  the 
ordinary  cremation  of  other  men,  kings,  priests, 
soldiers,  artisans,  beggars  and  pariahs,  piled  up  on 
the  brazier  of  the  burning-ghats.  Death,  great 
leveler  that  it  is,  nevertheless  distinguishes  him 
from  other  mortals.  They  enclose  his  body  in  a 
coffin,  or  more  often  in  a  clay  jar,  and  let  it  sink 
solemnly  to  the  bottom  of  the  Ganges.  A  perfect 
symbol,  such  a  burial  as  this,  of  the  favor  which, 
in  permitting  him  to  escape  destruction  by  fire 
(Agni),  facilitates  in  this  way  the  cycle  of  his 
future  incarnations. 

So  wills,  so  teaches  the  Baghavadgita,  in  which 
Krishna,  addressing  his  disciples,  utters  these 
admirable  words  which  Saint  Augustine  and  the 
Fathers  of  the  Church  would  not  have  disavowed: 

"You  bear  within  yourself  a  divine  soul  of 
which  you  are  not  aware,  for  God  resides  in  the 
soul  of  every  man,  but  few  know  how  to  find  Him 
there.  The  man  who  sacrifices  his  desires  and  his 
works  to  the  Being  from  whom  proceed  the  prin- 
ciples of  all  things  and  by  whom  the  universe  has 
been  formed,  obtains  perfection  through  this  sac- 
rifice and  approaches  God. 


1 66  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

"Moreover,  you  must  know  that  he  who  has 
found  God  is  delivered  from  re-birth  and  from 
death,  from  old  age  and  from  grief  and  drinks  the 
water  of  immortality." 


CHAPTER  XVII 


BENARES  AND  ITS  FAKIRS 

The  mysterious  quarter  of  Kashi — True  and  false  fakirs — 
Conjurers,  hypnotists  and  illusionists — The  sincerity  of 
the  psychometrists — Voluntary  martyrs  and  men  with 
withered  limbs — The  miracle  of  the  buried  alive — Con- 
templators — The  fakir  condemned  to  eat  and  to  do  nothing 
— Absolution  without  .  .  .  perfect  contrition. 


HIS  spectacle  of  the  Brahmans  on 
the  banks  of  the  Ganges  or  in  their 
temples,  is  still  merely  a  general, 
superficial,  external  spectacle  that 
can  satisfy  only  the  tourist,  the 
globe-trotter.  The  philosopher 
must  seek  further  if  he  wishes  to  make  his  deduc- 
tions. Plunging  to  the  depths  of  this  abyss  of  ob- 
scurities and  splendors,  he  ignores  the  sink  of  im- 
purities, the  filthy  pollution  of  the  sanctuaries,  in 
order  to  extract  from  it  the  immaterial  lesson,  the 
foretaste  of  the  pure  and  infinite  joys  of  the  Ini- 
tiation. And  this  visit — I  was  going  to  say  this 
exploration — we  shall  no  longer  make  in  the  mag- 
nificent and  corrupt  Benares  of  the  ghats,  but  in 

16? 


i68  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

native  Kashi,  that  mysterious  and  inviolate  quarter 
of  the  fakirs,  the  thaumaturgists  and  other  workers 
of  miracles.  Thither  I  shall  try  to  lead  and  to 
guide  you.  But  shall  I  ever  be  able  to  describe 
the  indescribable? 

I  understand  how  some  might  object  that  in  my 
passionate  admiration,  my  adoration  for  India,  I 
may  have  been  a  victim  of  auto-suggestion  or  have 
deceived  myself  with  appearances,  or  have  worked 
up  my  enthusiasms  from  what  I  had  already  heard 
and  read  in  Europe.  But  none  of  that  would  be 
true.  I  have  only  been  the  objective  observer  of 
a  calm,  regular  and  serene  piety,  an  august  con- 
tempt for  death,  a  lofty  indifference  for  all  that 
must  return  to  the  earth.  Little  do  I  care  if  the 
Hindu  believers  venerate  in  their  temples  of 
marble  and  gold,  holy  cows  or  impudent,  thieving 
monkeys,  or  that  the  foot  of  the  devotee  is  scanda- 
lized if  it  slips  on  the  sacred  excretions!  I  remem- 
ber only  this:  for  these  faithful  life  is  transitory. 
That  is  what  I  conclude  from  their  mournful,  re- 
signed, passive,  vegetarian  existence,  perennially 
respectful  of  animal  life,  convinced  abolitionists 
of  desire  (at  times  even  of  sensation),  splendidly 
impassible  before  the  funeral  pyre  which  consumes 
the  beloved  being:  father,  mother,  husband,  child, 
brother,  sister,  betrothed,  friend.  This  is  what  I 


BENARES  AND  ITS  FAKIRS          169 

see  in  the  hieratical  attitude  of  their  priests,  what 
I  read  in  the  rolling  eyeballs  of  their  contempla- 
tive Rishis,  their  preaching  Swamis,  and  their  holy 
Yogis. 

Ah!  what  fine  faces  they  have,  inspired,  Gali- 
lean, these  pundits  deciphering  some  old  text  of  the 
Upanishads,  in  the  half-light  of  some  votive  altar  I 
And  what  a  mystic  aura,  wild,  haggard,  unearthly, 
seems  to  flit  through  the  blinking  eyes  of  these 
Sanyashis,  anaemic  and  wasted  by  fastings,  the  face, 
beard  and  hair  soiled  with  ashes  and  dried  cow's 
dung,  the  neck  and  arms  weighed  down  with  shells 
and  strings  of  pods,  who  stare  at  you  with  their 
ecstatic  or  possessed  look  and  send  a  cold  shiver  of 
interrogation,  doubt  and  terror  over  your  whole 
body  I 

Often  they  are  sincere.  There  are  charlatans, 
too,  sometimes.  But  if  we  are  speaking  of  actors, 
are  they  not  to  be  found  in  all  the  religious  con- 
fessions? Mountebanks  and  money-changers  of 
the  temple,  whom  Jesus  drove  out  with  blows  of 
the  lash!  It  is  inevitable  that  now  and  then  Hu- 
manity should  resume  the  rights  of  its  unavoidable 
weakness,  nothing  here  below  being  absolute  or 
perfect.  Nor  does  one  need  any  profound  learn- 
ing to  be  able  to  put  their  right  estimate  on  sleight- 
of-hand  tricks,  on  the  so-called  phenomena  of  the 


i7o  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

instantaneous  germination  of  plants,  the  spontane- 
ous bursting  into  flame  or  extinction  of  lighted 
coals,  the  disappearance  of  objects  and  other  feats 
of  juggling.  To  the  learned  Robert  Houdins  the 
local  color  adds  an  exotic  atmosphere  of  mystery. 
Others,  also  jugglers — with  us  they  would  call 
themselves  "hypnotists"  and  would  provide  them- 
selves with  fancy  diplomas  and  the  sufficiently 
cheap  title  of  "professor" — others,  I  say,  exercise 
and  prodigiously  fortify  their  will  in  order  to 
amuse  themselves  at  the  expense  of  the  simple  and 
"easy"  European.  The  hypnotic  power  has  all  the 
more  force  when  it  is  exercised  upon  a  brain 
oftenest  encumbered  with  mean  preoccupations, 
of  the  earth  earthy,  little  fitted  for  a  single  and 
obstinate  effort  of  the  will.  The  strong  fluid  over- 
masters the  weak  fluid ;  between  the  operator  and 
the  subject,  it  is  merely  a  matter  of  a  few  curious 
passes  of  suggestion.  In  short,  just  what  people 
study,  every  day  at  the  Salpetriere.  But  instead  of 
calling  itself  electrobiology,  and  having  as  its 
founders  illustrious  neurologists  like  Charcot, 
Azam  and  Broca,  in  India  it  bears  the  name  of 
fakirism  and  is  practised  by  poor  shivering 
wretches  who,  for  a  few  pennies,  will  toss  a  rope 
into  the  air,  "climb  up  the  ladder"  for  you,  in  the 
exact  and  figurative  meaning  of  the  words.  That 


BENARES  AND  ITS  FAKIRS  171 

is  probably  what  happened  to  me  when  I  was  with 
the  princes  of  Jeypore  and  believed  I  saw  a  fakir 
juggle  himself  away  and  then  bring  an  adder  to 
life.  With  me,  it  must  have  been  a  case  of  partial 
hypnotism. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  classes  of  fakirs  I 
encountered  in  India  was  undoubtedly  that  of  the 
psychometrists,1  or  diviners.  These  prophets  of 
the  present,  the  past  and  the  future  reveal  things 
with  surprising  exactitude,  by  merely  touching 
some  familiar  object  which  you  wear  continually 
and  which  you  are  willing  to  confide  to  them  for 
a  moment.  The  object  may  have  belonged  to  a 
dead  member  of  your  family,  to  one  of  your 
friends,  or  it  may  have  been  the  property  of  a  liv- 
ing person.  The  one  essential  is  that  it  shall  have 
been  in  permanent  contact  with  the  wearer.  Thus 
it  may  be  a  watch,  a  pencil,  a  penknife,  or  a  jewel. 
The  object  is  handed  to  the  diviner  without  a  word 
being  spoken.  He  grasps  it  tightly  between  his 
hands  and  strives  to  impregnate  himself  with  the 
astral  particles  that  cling  to  it  or,  more  exactly, 
are  crystallized  upon  it.  After  a  few  moments, 
the  fakir  sinks  into  a  trance;  his  eyes  turn  inwards; 

'See  my  romance  Pdrvati,  pp.  155-158  (Albin  Michel,  publisher, 
Paris),  and  its  English  version  by  Mrs.  Helen  Davenport  Gibbons 
(The  Century  Co.). 


i72  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

the  sweat  gathers  in  beads  on  his  forehead,  his 
hands  and  arms  jerk  and  twist  convulsively.  .  .  . 
Then  suddenly  inarticulate  words  escape  from  his 
lips,  at  first  merely  confused  phrases,  which 
speedily  join  themselves  together  so  as  to  form  a 
complete  and  intelligible  whole,  an  amazing  and 
circumstantial  resume  of  the  life  or  the  tempera- 
ment of  the  object's  possessor.  It  has  been  my  own 
experience — and  all  travelers  worthy  of  credence 
who  have  had  the  experience  will  confirm  my 
words — that  nine  times  out  of  ten  the  utterances  of 
these  magicians  have  been  astoundingly  correct. 
In  India,  the  power  of  the  psychometrists  is  never 
disputed,  either  by  popular  belief  among  the  na- 
tives or  scientifically  in  the  most  cultivated  British 
circles. 

Let  us  pass  to  another  variety  of  fakir,  adroit 
fellows,  with  an  eye  for  business,  who  speculate 
upon  the  disgust  and  pity  of  foreigners  and  make 
use  of  it  to  earn  their  living.  These  are  the  volun- 
tary martyrs,  the  contortionists,  who  will  exhibit 
before  you  a  member  that  has  been  frightfully  dis- 
located for  years  and  has  the  color  of  mortifica- 
tion. That  fellow  began  to  mortify  an  arm  fifteen 
years  ago  and  has  succeeded  in  doing  so  by  holding 
it  constantly  stretched  heavenward :  the  joints  have 
grown  together,  making  any  movement  henceforth 


BENARES  AND  ITS  FAKIRS  173 

impossible,  the  muscles  have  become  mummified; 
the  nails  of  the  hand  have  grown  inordinately  and 
have  twisted  themselves  like  vines  about  the  wrists. 
This  one  passes  his  life  surrounded  by  live  coals, 
half  suffocated  by  the  smoke,  or  lying  on  a  bed  of 
nettles,  cactus  points  or  sharp  bits  of  iron. 

We  must  not  forget  those  who  are  buried  alive! 

These  last  offer  a  rare  example  of  courage  and 
education  of  the  will.  The  experience  which  they 
undergo  voluntarily  is  worthy  of  being  described, 
for  it  necessitates  a  training  and  above  all  a  final 
resignation,  to  which,  speaking  personally,  it 
would  give  me  but  little  pleasure  to  force  myself. 
For  days,  weeks  and  months,  the  fakir  in  question 
accustoms  himself  to  eat,  drink  and  breathe  as  lit- 
tle as  possible.  As  we  can  easily  imagine,  the  prac- 
tice of  breathing  as  little  as  possible  is  the  most 
painful  of  these  preliminary  tests.  In  short,  the 
candidate  for  provisional  death  tries  to  reach  the 
point  of  suspended  life,  and  to  enter  almost  wholly 
into  that  animal  petrifaction — if  I  may  call  it 
so — of  the  toad,  the  lizard  and  the  tortoise. 

When  the  proper  day  arrives,  the  initiate 
stretches  himself  out,  or,  more  exactly,  is  stretched 
out  in  a  coffin.  Brahmans  seal  his  eyes,  nose, 
mouth  and  ears  in  turn  with  plugs  of  cotton  wad- 
ding and  with  wax.  They  anoint  his  body  with 


174  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

special  aromatic  oils,  which  I  suppose  are  also 
antiseptic  and  preservative.  They  murmur  magic 
formulas  and  incantations  over  him,  and  in  the 
presence  of  a  great  assembly  of  people  and  licensed 
witnesses — for  in  this  country  an  event  of  such  im- 
portance constitutes  a  sort  of  "first  night" — the  cof- 
fin lid  is  closed,  screwed  down  and  sealed  over  the 
living  dead  man,  swathed  in  cloths  and  bandages. 
About  the  grave,  which  is  covered  with  earth  and 
over  which  they  have  sown  some  sort  of  grain, 
stand  trusted  guards,  sometimes  Sepoys  from  the 
Imperial  Army,  who  keep  watch  day  and  night 
during  the  weeks  or  months,  according  to  the 
period  fixed  by  the  voluntary  deceased. 

Then,  when  the  time  has  passed,  the  coffin  is 
taken  out  of  the  tomb  and  opened  before  the  priests 
and  the  sworn  witnesses.  They  verify  the  seals 
under  the  eye  of  the  native  magistrate,  and  the 
priests  utter  new  prayers  while  the  funeral  Brah- 
mans  accomplish  slowly  and  with  infinite  precau- 
tion the  work  of  resurrection.  They  massage  the 
extremities  progressively,  unstop  the  orifices  sealed 
with  cotton  and  wax,  breathe  air  in,  apply  a  gentle 
friction,  exercise  the  extensor  and  respiratory 
muscles  and  finally  pull  the  tongue  rhythmically. 
When  the  double  function  of  respiration  and  cir- 
culation has  been  established,  they  give  a  few  drops 


BENARES  AND  ITS  FAKIRS  175 

of  some  mysterious  beverage  to  the  resuscitated 
Lazarus,  taking  great  care,  naturally,  to  keep  all 
food  away  from  him.  In  the  same  way  that  he 
has  been  prepared  by  stages  for  the  apparent  death, 
he  must  accustom  himself,  by  minutely  regulated 
steps,  to  his  quasi-miraculous  raising  from  the 
dead.  Too  great  haste  in  the  renewing  of  his  or- 
gans, suspended  by  lethargy,  would  inevitably 
cause  his  death — a  real  and  effective  death,  this 
time. 

To  sum  up  this  matter:  many  who  have  been 
interred  alive,  badly  prepared,  badly  buried,  or 
badly  resuscitated,  succumb  to  the  trying  experi- 
ence. A  small  number  of  these  amateur  lovers  of 
the  grave  survive  this  motionless  and  dangerous 
sport. 

" Ab  uno,  disce  omnes." 

But  let  us  continue  our  brief  review  of  the  prin- 
cipal and  most  curious  \oluntary  martyrs. 

There  are  other  fakirs  who  take  it  as  a  duty  or 
as  an  amusement  to  make  the  tour  of  the  peninsula 
with  the  soles  of  their  feet  covered  with  tacks,  or 
by  crawling  on  their  stomachs,  using  only  the 
movements  of  their  abdomen  and  chest.  Others 
absorb  themselves  in  the  contemplation  of  a  plant 
or  a  vine,  the  growth  of  which  they  have  watched 
for  twenty  years!  All  their  power  of  attention  is 


176  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

concentrated  solely  on  the  growth  and  develop- 
ment of  a  vegetable,  the  object  of  their  observation. 
Unfortunately,  close  to  these  tortured  creatures, 
these  contemplators  and  do-nothings,  is  the  wooden 
bowl,  the  inevitable  wooden  bowl,  the  crucible  in 
which  a  lucrative  business  boils  up  in  coppers! 

In  this  connection,  let  me  recount  an  anecdote 
that  reveals,  oh,  how  well!  the  nonchalance  and 
the  passivity  of  this  fatalistic  race. 

I  was  visiting  Buddha-Gaia,  northern  India's 
famous  place  of  pilgrimage,  a  short  distance  from 
Benares,  and  my  curiosity,  my  appetite  for  f akirism 
had  just  been  aroused  by  the  sight  of  an  extremely 
corpulent  old  man,  seated  under  a  fig-tree,  at  a 
short  distance  from  the  great  temple  with  its  mas- 
sive sculptures.  Near  this  worthy  were  heaped 
up  jars  of  rice,  fruits  and  vegetables.  A  great 
crowd  of  idlers  surrounded  him,  respectfully, 
without  daring  to  address  a  word  to  him,  content- 
ing themselves  with  merely  touching  his  rags  and 
laying  their  offerings  at  his  feet. 

Without  doubt,  I  was  in  the  presence  of  a  cele- 
brated and  venerated  fakir.  But  what  was  he  do- 
ing? What  mysterious  and  secret  vow  was  he 
obeying?  And  no  bowl  beside  him?  It  was  too 
much! 


A   PALACE   ON   THE   BANKS  OF  THE  GANGES 


BRAHMANIC    FUNERALS   ON    THE    BANKS    OF   THE    GANGES;    TO   THE 
LEFT,    A    CORPSE    IN    ITS    SHROUD 


BENARES — THE  PILGRIMS'   ABLUTIONS 


BENARES — A   HIGH-CASTE   CREMATION 


BENARES  AND  ITS  FAKIRS  177 

Full  of  curiosity,  I  approached  the  group  and 
questioned  my  guide-interpreter. 

"It  is  a  holy  man,  Sahib,"  he  answered  feelingly. 

"Good  heavens!  I  can  see  that!  But  what  is 
his  specialty  as  a  fakir?" 

"Nothing,  Sahib,"  answered  my  boy.  "He  is 
awaiting  his  Nirvana." 

"What,  already?" 

"He  is  a  great  saint.  He  has  sworn  not  to  work 
or  to  beg,  but  to  let  himself  die  of  hunger,  if  such 
is  the  will  of  Siva." 

"But  .  .  .  that  well-fed  air,  those  plump  cheeks. 
.  .  .  And  then  those  heaped  up  provisions?  That 
rice,  those  fruits  and  vegetables?  It  seems  to  me 
that  his  vow  .  .  ." 

My  boy  jumped  with  indignation:  "Oh,  Sahib, 
could  you  think  it!  But  the  holy  man  has  not 
asked  for  these  provisions.  They  are  offered  to 
him.  Therefore  he  accepts  them.  Surely  all  these 
good  things  ought  to  be  eaten!" 

And  when,  skeptical  and  amused,  I  shrugged 
my  shoulders,  my  turbaned  guide  continued  em- 
phatically: "He  is  not  a  beggar,  Sahib.  But  what 
can  you  expect?  He  dares  not  disobey  Siva  I  I 
assure  you  that  in  his  heart  it  costs  him  a  good 
deal  to  eat." 

No  commentary. 


I78  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

But  you  will  say  either  that  I  am  mistaken  or 
that  I  am  afraid  of  taking  away,  one  by  one,  the 
last  illusions  of  my  readers  in  regard  to  this  most 
interesting  corporation  of  fakirs.  Let  us  be  fair. 
As  I  have  just  impartially  painted  it,  without  any 
preconceived  ideas  of  one  sort  or  another,  without 
prejudices  due  to  ignorance  or  a  spirit  of  mockery, 
this  corporation,  which  in  itself  almost  forms  one 
of  the  Indian  castes,  remains,  whatever  we  may 
think  of  it,  one  of  the  peculiarities,  one  of  the 
oddities,  one  of  the  attractions  of  this  extraordi- 
nary country.  The  fakir,  even  when  he  is  a  char- 
latan, a  trickster,  or  simply  lazy,  contributes  his 
own  quite  special  note.  I  will  go  further  and  say 
that  he  forms  a  part,  an  integral  part  of  the  pic- 
ture, the  atmosphere  and  the  local  color.  This 
being  so,  we  owe  him  a  little  of  the  indulgence, 
even  a  little  of  the  favor  and  sympathy  which  we 
bestow  so  lavishly  on  certain  heroes  of  our  detec- 
tive stories,  gentleman-burglars  and  other  deli- 
cious rascals  who  are  never  entirely  repentent 
.  .  .  and  whom  we  always  absolve ! 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


DAWN  ON  THE  HIMALAYA 

Calcutta-London — Chandernagor  unadorned — The  crossing  of 
Father  Ganges — Darjeeling  and  its  Thibetian  bonzes — 
Sunrise  over  the  Gaorisankar — A  dispossessed  rajah — The 
throne-punishment  of  the  hermit — How  one  becomes 
Parahamsa. 

F  Calcutta  I  shall  say  little,  having 
received  few  impressions  from  it. 
It  is  a  modern  city,  rather  like  Lon- 
don, whose  docks,  black  with  smoke, 
strangely  resemble  those  of  the 
Thames  (and  yet  this  great  river 
which  flows  past  is  the  Howgli,  an  arm  of  the 
Ganges!).  In  the  same  way  the  big  bridge  which 
unites  the  ancient  capital  to  its  suburb  of  Howrah, 
bears  a  strong  resemblance  to  the  famous  London 
Bridge,  in  its  turbulence,  its  press  of  vehicles  and 
the  affluence  of  the  pedestrians ;  only  here  the  cab- 
horses  are  zebus,  fastened  to  little  carts,  and  the 
thronging  passers-by  belong  to  all  the  shades  of  the 

Hindu  rainbow:  Parsees,  Bengalis,  Pathans,  Ba- 

179 


i8o  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

luches,  Afghans,  Burmese,  Sikhs,  Goorkhas,  even 
a  few  Thibetians,  Nepalese  and  Chinese. 

The  day  before  I  had  visited  Chandernagor. 

Poor  Chandernagor!  What  illusions  are  dis- 
pelled at  the  sight  of  this  little  town  lost  under  the 
exuberant  foliage  of  the  palms,  the  dear  palms 
found  again  at  last!  What  a  downfall  since  1673, 
the  date  of  its  foundation  by  our  Compagnie  des 
Indes!  .  .  .  Today,  these  two  thousand  or  so  brick 
houses,  ill  at  ease  in  their  narrow,  restricted  enclo- 
sure, owe  their  existence  to  the  friendly  generosity 
of  the  English.  A  simple  cordon  of  customs  of- 
ficials would  suffice  to  starve  out  this  settlement 
and  strangle  in  a  few  days  its  miserable  little  trade. 
It  is  useless  to  look  for  colonists;  as  at  Yanaon, 
Karikal  and  Mahe  the  French  population  is  con- 
fined to  the  Administrator,  the  police  corporal,  the 
tax-collector,  the  missionaries  and  the  good  Sis- 
ters. The  manager  of  the  single  hotel  at  Chan- 
dernagor (what  an  hotel!)  was,  at  the  time  of  my 
stay,  an  Austrian  from  Trieste.  There  is,  indeed, 
a  Dupleix  College,  but  we  teach  English  in  it 
— French  being  treated  as  optional/  On  the  other 
hand,  and  this  is  a  small  crumb  of  consolation, 
Chandernagor  is  the  prey,  at  least  as  much  as 
Pondichery,  of  the  worst  politics  and  the  worst 
journalism.  The  elections  there  are  a  veritable 


DAWN  ON  THE  HIMALAYA         181 

traffic  in  dishonest  influences  in  the  two  opposed 
camps.  Finally,  to  complete  this  sad  but  strictly 
true  picture,  I  recall  that  it  was  at  Chandernagor 
that  the  revolutionary  Bengali  bomb-throwers 
were  accustomed  to  hold  their  meetings.  It  even 
used  to  be  one  of  the  haunts  of  Shwadeshism,  the 
Indian  nihilism.  They  tell  me,  but  I  have  no 
other  proof  of  it,  that  the  anarchist  paper  "Yu- 
kantar,"  the  organ  of  this  party,  was  set  up  and 
printed  in  our  possession,  under  the  protection  of 
our  flag,  and  that  not  long  ago  it  offered  a  reward 
for  the  head  of  any  European.  Sweet  land!  Such 
is  the  gratitude  of  a  population  to  which  England 
pays  annually  a  fee  of  three  hundred  balls  of 
opium  on  the  condition  that  it  does  not  cultivate 
this  product  itself! 

I  try  to  forget  these  humiliating  memories  on 
the  forward  deck  of  the  ferry-boat  from  Calcutta 
to  Damukdia-Ghat,  while  I  watch  the  boatman 
cast  out  his  sounding-line,  chanting  each  time,  in  a 
minor  key,  the  depth  of  the  waters  of  Father 
Ganges.  This  precaution,  if  I  am  to  believe  the 
keeper  of  the  Parsee  buffet,  has  become  absolutely 
indispensable  to  the  safety  of  navigation  in  these 
parts ;  in  fact,  no  possible  sounding  could  map  out 
a  permanent  river-bed;  the  river  here  displays  the 
peculiarity  of  changing  the  banks  along  its  sides 


182  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

nearly  every  day.  A  great  silence  broods  over  this 
immense  and  dreary  waste,  edged  with  mists, 
through  which  shows,  from  time  to  time,  the  half- 
spectral  apparition  of  a  fisherman,  hauling  in  his 
nets  in  his  phantom  bark.  The  crossing,  which 
quite  stirs  one's  emotions,  takes  about  three-quar- 
ters of  an  hour,  after  which  one  changes  to  the 
Eastern-Bengal  Railway,  the  track  of  which  is 
only  a  meter  wide.  From  there  one  reaches  Sili- 
guri,  a  station  situated  at  the  foot  of  the  first  spurs 
of  the  Himalaya,  four  hundred  feet  above  the  level 
of  the  sea. 

Siliguri  is  the  point  of  departure  for  the  Lilli- 
putian train  which  terminates  at  Darjeeling.  This 
line  is  only  sixty  centimeters  wide,  which  gives  its 
trains  the  aspect  and  the  charm  of  a  set  of  toy  cars. 
Nevertheless,  it  carries  a  heavy  traffic,  and  its  en- 
gines can  pull  as  much  as  fifty  tons,  and  that  on 
grades  which  sometimes  rise  one  foot  in  forty-five. 
The  slow  ascent  assumes  a  character  of  grandiose 
beauty,  wild  and  austere:  two  locomotives,  one  in 
front  and  one  behind,  climb  the  steep  slope,  be- 
yond which  rise  the  immaculate  peaks  of  the  Kich- 
ijunga  chain.  Bold  curves  and  dizzying  zig-zags! 
We  mount  up  through  silent,  virgin  forests,  alter- 
nating along  the  slopes  of  the  mountains  with  little 
bare  mounds  from  which  gushing  fountains  and 


DAWN  ON  THE  HIMALAYA         183 

cascades  spread  out  in  sparkling  drops  over  the 
moss  and  lichens.  Then  the  first  tea-plantations  of 
Kurseong  stretch  their  carefully  spaced  bushes 
over  the  uplands.  I  am  already  struck  by  the 
change  in  the  type  of  the  inhabitants :  no  more  of 
those  handsome  profiles,  with  straight  noses,  oval 
chins,  large  black  eyes,  but  a  complete  and  ethnical 
transformation  in  the  Mongol  faces  of  these  short, 
thickset  mountaineers,  of  a  bilious  complexion, 
with  undeniably  almond-shaped  lids,  with  large 
smiling  mouths  which  no  longer  have  that  bitter, 
disillusioned,  melancholy  look,  that  racial  lassi- 
tude which  I  have  so  continually  noticed  in  most 
Indians,  Aryans  as  well  as  Dravidians. 

Darjeeling! 

I  allow  myself  to  be  carried  off  to  the  hotel,  in 
spite  of  the  bumps  and  jolts  of  my  primitive  rick- 
shaw which  is  dragged  along  by  feminine  arms — 
for  in  this  anything  but  commonplace  country  the 
woman  does  the  work  cf  the  man,  who  is  piously 
occupied  in  smoking,  gossiping,  meditating  or 
ceaselessly  turning  his  prayer-wheel.  Yes,  so  great 
is  masculine  laziness  in  these  Himalaya  that  the 
poorest  family  counts  among  its  everyday  domestic 
utensils  this  precious  instrument  of  piety,  in  the 
interior  of  which  the  Buddhist  bonzes  have  written 
miles  of  prayers.  When  these  litanies  are  once 


1 84  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

wound  up,  the  devout  man  has  nothing  to  do  but 
to  turn  his  "cri-cri":  the  prayer  says  itself  all  alone. 

****** 

I  arose  this  morning  at  four  o'clock.  A  meri- 
torious effort,  but  it  is  not  every  morning  that  we 
can  watch  the  sun  rise  over  one  of  the  highest 
summits  on  our  planet. 

A  dense  fog  floats  over  everything  as  my  furry 
pony,  preceded  by  a  guide  bearing  lanterns,  sets 
out  over  the  road  which  leads  to  Tiger  Point. 
From  there  I  hope  to  see  the  setting  of  the  first 
star  on  the  summit  of  Gaorisankar,  called  Mount 
Everest  by  the  English. 

First,  there  is  a  sharp  ascent,  abrupt  and  fatigu- 
ing, by  a  zig-zag  path  across  which  my  mount's 
shoe  sets  stones  rolling  every  moment.  My  eyes, 
beginning  to  grow  accustomed  to  the  darkness, 
soon  make  out  in  the  distance  a  sort  of  rustic  chalet, 
built  on  a  platform  and  dominating  on  one  side  the 
unlimited  plain,  the  basin  of  the  Ganges  and  the 
Brahmaputra,  on  the  other  the  four  or  five  suc- 
cessive levels  of  the  mountains  which  rise,  step 
after  step,  up  to  the  gigantic  white  chain. 

I  feel  isolated,  lost  on  this  platform,  in  this  sea 
of  morning  mists,  which  the  timid  light  of  dawn  is 
piercing  little  by  little.  First,  there  is  a  diffused 


NANGA-BABA,    THE    ASCETIC,     IN     HIS    WATCH-TOWER,     TURNING     HIS 
BACK    TO   THE   GANGES 


A   FANATIC  OF  THE   SECT  OF  SIVA,   PROCEEDING  ON    A   PILGRIMAGE   BY 
ROLLING 


DARJEELING     (HIMALAYA) — A    THIBETAN    BONZE     AND    HIS    FAMILY 


CAWNPORE — MEMORIAL    OF    THE    MASSACRE    IN    1857 


DAWN  ON  THE  HIMALAYA         185 

silver  light,  which  bars  the  horizon  with  a  parallel 
band,  the  two  extremities  of  which  grow  gradually 
less.  This  band  of  light  sets  glittering  confusedly 
the  meanderings  of  the  rivers,  streams,  torrents 
and  the  motionless  basins  of  the  ponds,  revealing 
geographically  the  vast  network  of  arteries  and  big 
and  little  veins  that  feed  the  body  of  the  peninsula 
of  Hindustan.  A  loose  mass  of  black  clouds  stands 
out  fantastically  against  the  luminous  ray,  which 
now  slowly  loses  its  paleness,  turning  to  straw 
yellow,  to  amber  and  to  orange.  All  at  once  the 
sun  bursts  through;  the  dark  curtain  is  torn  open 
and  a  lake  of  fire  appears.  How  can  I  translate  in 
words  this  Dantesque  vision,  so  sinister  and  so 
terrifying?  It  seems  to  me  that  those  black  ravel- 
ings  have  become  the  damned,  dancing  their  in- 
fernal, hideous  and  eternal  round.  It  is  beauti- 
ful, tragically  beautiful,  horribly  beautiful.  And 
yonder,  the  cone  grows  rosy,  little  by  little,  colored 
by  that  lake  which  has  become  an  ocean.  Now  a 
purple  sea  extends  before  me,  a  blood-covered  ex- 
panse on  which  the  damned  melt  away,  shade  off 
and  vanish.  One  would  say  that,  in  his  supreme 
forbearance,  God  was  opposing  himself  to  the  eter- 
nal torture  of  the  condemned  throughout  the  cen- 
turies. An  era  of  pity,  perhaps  of  pardon  and  for- 
getfulness,  opening  with  this  red-gold  apotheosis 


1 86  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

in  which  the  sublime  Redeemer  sinks  once  more. 
But  then  what  are  we  to  think  of  the  implacable 
vengeance  of  which  the  Scriptures  speak? 

This  haunting  doubt  pursues  me  into  the  sunken 
gorge  which  I  now  enter  on  the  way  to  the  hidden 
retreat  of  a  hermit,  a  Parahamsa,  one  of  those 
unknown  sages  who  have  taken  refuge  in  the  inac- 
cessible solitudes  of  the  Himalaya.  I  had  been 
told  at  Benares  of  this  ascetic.  His  history  has 
something  of  the  symbolic  about  it.  An  ancient 
dispossessed  rajah,  he  now  leads  in  a  bamboo  hut 
the  life  of  a  contemplative  philosopher,  detached 
from  all  earthly  desires. 

As  with  my  guide  I  enter  the  hermit's  enclosure, 
an  unexpected  sight  nails  me,  so  to  speak,  to  the 
threshold.  Before  me,  in  the  middle  of  a  court, 
on  a  heap  of  vegetable  rubbish  where  fowls  are 
pecking,  a  motionless,  smooth-skinned  old  man  is 
seated  on  a  throne  of  teak-wood,  gilded,  sculp- 
tured, carved  by  marvelous  unknown  artists.  It 
strikes  me  that  this  shining  seat  must  formerly  have 
been  encrusted  with  gems,  to  judge  from  the  gap- 
ing settings  from  which  stones  have  been  brutally 
torn.  I  stop,  uncertain,  troubled  and  out  of  coun- 
tenance before  this  man,  in  the  pose  of  a  Buddha, 
whom  I  have  just  disturbed  from  his  meditation 
on  Nirvana.  My  letter  of  introduction  from  Ben- 


DAWN  ON  THE  HIMALAYA         187 

ares  trembles  in  my  hand ;  I  am  in  half  a  mind  to 
take  myself  off.  How  is  that  dreamer  there  going 
to  receive  me?  Has  he  even  seen  me? 

Apparently  not;  but  without  looking  at  me  he 
motions  me  to  approach.  The  interview  begins  at 
once  through  the  translations  of  my  interpreter. 
The  hermit's  voice  is  a  little  dull,  broken  by  age, 
but  still  soft  and  harmonious.  I  learn  about  his 
manner  of  life,  his  vow  and  why,  by  a  hermitical 
refinement  worthy  both  of  Saint  Benedict  and  Si- 
mon Stylites,  he  voluntarily  surrounds  his  ancient 
throne  with  manure  and  offal,  which  he  is  obliged 
to  cross  each  time  he  comes  to  sit  there.  A  punish- 
ment for  his  past  life  of  debauchery  and  tyranny? 
Or  the  symbol  of  the  compromise,  the  baseness 
and  villainy  which  generally  constitute  the  ap- 
proach to  power  and  its  preservation?  Just  which, 
I  have  difficulty  in  making  out  from  my  guide's 
jargon.  The  hermit  has  taken  my  letter  of  intro- 
duction and  looked  it  over,  without  speaking,  with 
his  dead  eyes,  already  filled  with  the  Beyond  and 
clouded  with  ecstasy. 

Then,  regretfully  shaking  off  his  hypnosis,  he 
says  to  me:  "So  there  are  those  among  the  feringhis 
of  the  West  who  wish  to  instruct  themselves  in  our 
doctrine?" 

I  reply  to  the  Parahamsa  that  in  Europe  there 


1 88  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

are  numerous  disciples  of  Vivekananda,  of  Annie 
Besant,  and  that  Paris,  as  well  as  London  and 
Madras,  has  its  theosophical  lodge;  I  speak  to  him 
of  the  Blue  Lotus  of  Madame  Blavatsky.  All  this 
is  not  unknown  to  him.  These  names  and  these 
associations  are  not  unfamiliar  to  him,  thanks  to 
his  reading  and  his  reflections  in  former  times 
when  he  used  to  reign,  when  he  commanded  a 
people,  courtiers,  armies.  Today  these  recollec- 
tions are  only  an  echo  in  his  weakened  memory. 
And  he  rejoices  in  his  own  downfall: 

"Thou  seest  here,  O  stranger,  a  man  who,  de- 
spoiled of  his  kingdom  and  his  riches,  glories  in 
this  supreme  joy,  the  only  true  one  which  this  in- 
carnation has  afforded  him.  As  a  king  I  learned 
to  know  men;  they  are  all  falsehood,  deceit  and 
treachery.  I  myself  who  speak  to  thee,  I  have 
been,  I  still  am,  the  vilest  among  them.  I  wished 
to  enslave  my  subjects.  The  oppressor  has  pun- 
ished me  for  it.  I  have  seen  my  wives  and  sons 
murdered,  my  palace  burned,  my  treasures  con- 
fiscated, my  titles  abolished.  But  why  should  I 
complain  against  this  just  punishment  of  my  sins? 
...  I  am  conscious  of  a  former  state  in  which  I 
was  even  baser  and  more  miserable.  The  pro- 
gression announced  by  the  master  is  therefore  on 
the  way  to  realization.  The  Gautama  has  said  it: 


DAWN  ON  THE  HIMALAYA          189 

'Nothing  that  is  to  happen  will  happen  before  its 
appointed  hour/  It  is  the  sage's  part  to  be  patient 
and  to  await  his  next  and  more  perfect  evolution. 
Why  should  the  ambitious  and  stupid  man  desire 
obstinately  to  hasten  this  change,  scorning  the 
usual  term?" 

I  look  at  this  strange  old  man.  He  frightens  me 
a  little  with  that  calm  air  of  his,  like  a  living  idol. 
And  as  I  bid  him  farewell,  bowing  respectfully, 
as  before  one  of  the  highest  personages  whom  I 
have  encountered  in  this  country,  I  hear  him  mur- 
muring softly  the  ritualistic  invocation  of  the  pil- 
grims to  the  Ganges:  "Om  Brahma  kripa'i  kevo- 
lom,"  "O  Brahma,  may  thy  will  alone  be  done!" 

In  this  fashion,  the  Grand  Lama  of  the  Thibet- 
ans must  pray  at  Lhassa. 


PART  IF 


CHAPTER  XIX 


HYDERABAD  AND  GOLCONDA 

Albert  Besnard  and  L'Homme  en  Rose — First  annoyances— -An 
indiscreet  nurse— Strolling  near  the  Char-Minar— His 
Highness,  the  Nizam,  has  me  arrested— The  incident 
closed— A  nightingale  worth  7,000  rupees— The  ruins  of 
Golconda — Yesterday  and  Today. 

YDERABAD   is  the  land  of  the 
Thousand  and  One  Nights  1 

All  my  impressions  can  be 
summed  up  in  this  one  exclamation 
of  admiration.  No  city  in  India, 
unless  it  is  Jeypore,  possesses  so 
much  Asiatic  splendor  and  local  color;  and  I  un- 
derstand why  my  illustrious  friend  Albert  Besnard 
has  stayed  here  so  long.  Was  it  not  here,  for  that 
matter,  that  we  met?  Captivated,  both  of  us,  by  the 
fabulous  and  legendary  side  of  this  city,  we  have 
drawn  from  it  our  own  respective  observations. 
He,  the  marvelous  artist,  has  caught  on  his  pallet, 
and  also  in  that  living  book  of  his,  so  full  of  color, 
L'Homme  en  Rose,  the  highly  Oriental  strange- 

193 


i94  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

ness  of  "this  field  of  gaily-colored  turbans."  I,  in 
my  more  modest  sphere  of  writer,  have  been  con- 
tent to  jot  down  in  my  traveler's  note-book  the 
coming  and  going  of  this  multi-colored  crowd,  the 
extraordinary  procession  of  these  princes,  these 
imans,  these  fakirs,  the  sing-song  supplications  of 
these  beggars,  the  sly  winking  of  these  bearded 
merchants,  squatting  at  the  back  of  their  shops,  like 
hairy  spiders  in  search  of  prey.  How  much  per- 
sonality has  this  tradition-loving  people,  so  far 
removed  from  our  Europe!  What  atmosphere  1 
I  am  positively  impregnated  with  it,  gripped  by  it, 
denationalized. 

A  Dutch  Catholic  missionary,  whose  acquaint- 
ance I  make  in  the  train,  between  the  stations  of 
Rai'chur  and  Wadi,  warns  me  of  the  astonishment 
I  shall  feel  on  entering  the  States  of  the  Nizam,  as 
they  call  the  sovereign  of  the  Dckkan  who  reigns 
over  twelve  millions  of  subjects,  most  of  them  Mo- 
hammedans. This  virtual  unanimity  of  religious 
belief,  according  to  the  reverend  father,  does  not 
prevent  the  authorities  from  showing  an  extremely 
liberal  attitude  towards  the  Christians  and  the 
Hindus.  To  support  his  statement,  the  good  mis- 
sionary shows  me  in  his  portfolio  a  special  permit 
from  the  sultan's  high  police,  dispensing  him  from 
all  administrative  annoyance,  and  at  the  same  time 


HYDERABAD  AND  GOLCONDA   195 

a  permanent  free  pass  to  travel  first  class  on  all  the 
railways  of  that  region.  "The  English,"  he  adds 
in  this  connection,  "also  prove  by  this  that  on  their 
side  they  honor  and  favor,  without  distinction,  all 
the  sowers  of  the  good  word  and  propagandists 
of  civilization."  It  is  unnecessary  to  add  that  they 
are  repaid  for  it.  I  shall  always  remember  the 
enthusiastic  way  in  which  the  Dutch  priest  ex- 
tolled to  me  the  benefits  of  the  English  occupation 
of  Central  India,  and  especially  how  he  praised 
the  English  canal  of  Bezwada,  to  which  all  the 
surrounding  plains  owe  their  present  fertility. 

I  reach  Hyderabad  at  about  seven  in  the  eve- 
ning. Why  am  I  not  a  missionary!  A  caviling, 
indiscreet,  inquisitorial  policeman  questions  me  as 
I  leave  the  train:  "Where  do  you  come  from? 
Who  are  you?  What  are  you  doing?  Where  are 
you  going?  Why  are  you  traveling?  Is  it  on 
business  or  for  pleasure?"  All  this  respectfully, 
of  course,  but  with  such  persistency  as  to  make 
one's  hair  rise.  They  make  me  pass  a  second  sani- 
tary examination  at  the  station;  they  change  my 
first  plague-passport  for  another,  more  detailed,  if 
such  a  thing  is  possible.  And  yet  I  come  from 
Bangalore,  an  exceptionally  healthy  city!  I  shake 
with  indignation,  I  protest,  I  call  down  the  aveng- 
ing thunders  of  my  consul.  All  my  French  trepi- 


i96  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

dation  brings  only  one  result,  an  amused  smile  on 
the  lips  of  my  obsequious  questioners.  For  a 
crowning  insult,  they  tell  me  that  I  must  go  day 
after  tomorrow  to  the  Civil  Hospital  and  have 
myself  examined  by  a  nurse  appointed  for  this 
duty.  ...  If  I  decide  to  remain  at  Hyderabad 
for  ten  days,  I  shall  have  the  advantage  of  being 
examined  only  every  other  day.  What  luck  for 
me! 

Ouf!  I  have  just  been  before  this  new-fash- 
ioned examining  board.  The  nurse,  a  half-breed 
blackamoor,  has  contented  herself  with  examining 
my  face,  hands,  arms  and  chest,  fortunately  not 
going  further.  And  now,  my  baggage  installed  at 
the  Secunderabad  Hotel,  I  relax  my  mind  by  mak- 
ing a  little  trip  through  the  town,  accompanied  by 
my  boy.  I  adore  these  aimless  strolls  about  the 
little  streets  and  bazaars;  I  have  generally  ob- 
served that  this  is  the  best  way  to  glean  observa- 
tions of  all  sorts.  We  therefore  set  off  on  foot, 
without  the  least  ostentation,  across  the  bridge  of 
the  river  Musi,  which  one  might  walk  over,  the 
drought  has  so  dried  it  up.  Then  we  pass  through 
the  wall  of  forts  built  in  1555  by  the  king  of  Gol- 
conda,  Mohammed  Kuli.  Along  the  river  bank 
they  have  built  levees  and  permanent  barricades 
because  of  the  frequent  inundations.  Do  not  laugh 


A  STREET  IN  HYDERABAD 


RUINS  AT  GOLCONDA 


H.    H.    PRINCE    AGA-KHAN,    RELIGIOUS    AND   POLITICAL    HEAD    OF   THE 
MUSSULMANS  OF  INDIA 


HYDERABAD  AND  GOLCONDA   197 

at  the  paradox!     They  are  still  speaking  of  the 
ravages  of  the  last  flood  of  1908. 

We  make  our  way  toward  the  Char-Minar,  a 
majestic  building  of  white  rough-stone,  flanked  by 
four  minarets.  They  still  call  it  the  Fish's  Gate, 
undoubtedly  because  a  gigantic  wooden  carp, 
wrapped  in  red  muslin,  swings  there.  At  its  en- 
trance are  lines  of  blind  men,  each  led  by  a  sharp- 
eyed  child,  who  with  indistinct,  voluble  voices, 
chant  their  complaint  like  an  anthem  to  the  crowd. 
Turbaned  horsemen,  mounted  on  frisky  little  long- 
tailed  horses,  pass  and  repass  along  the  highway. 
I  am  struck  by  the  appearance  of  these  horsemen, 
some  of  them  armed  with  Arab  guns,  others  with 
yatagans  and  kandjars,  a  perquisite  which,  as  with 
our  Corsicans,  has  been  granted  them  from  time 
immemorial.  I  follow  the  highway  mechanically, 
interested  in  all  that  surrounds  me.  The  further 
I  advance,  the  more  congested  becomes  the  traffic. 
My  boy  explains  that  today  happens  to  be  a  great 
Mohammedan  festival  and  that  the  people  are 
coming  to  render  homage  to  His  Highness,  the 
Nizam.  We  advance  with  great  difficulty,  and 
soon  we  are  under  the  very  windows  of  the  zenana 
where,  from  behind  the  dirty  screens  of  yellow 
grass,  the  monarch's  hundreds  of  wives  are  mo- 
tionlessly  watching  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  crowd. 


198  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

A  remark  here.  I  am  always  infinitely  respect- 
ful of  the  customs  and  religious  ceremonies  of  the 
countries  I  visit,  modeling  myself  in  this  on  the 
English,  who  are  thoroughly  tolerant  rulers.  But 
truly  I  did  not  think  I  was  committing  a  sacrilege 
in  mingling  innocently  with  the  prince's  subjects. 
Just  then,  however,  my  glance  fell  on  the  balcony 
where  the  sultan  stood.  Was  it  because,  untidily 
dressed  as  he  was,  badly  shaved,  with  his  hair  in 
disorder  and  his  black  garments  covered  with 
spots,  the  Nizam,  who  was  surrounded  by  his  little 

• 

Crown  Prince,  four  years  old,  and  two  half-breed 
nurses,  was  ashamed  to  be  surprised  in  such  a  state 
by  a  European?  Or  was  he  suddenly  seized  with 
an  irrational  hatred  of  foreigners?  However  that 
may  be,  this  potentate — one  of  the  most  powerful, 
and  above  all  one  of  the  richest  in  India,  possessing 
an  income  of  no  less  than  seventy-five  millions — 
made  me  a  sign  with  his  hand  to  retire.  Very 
much  astonished,  I  did  not  comply  with  his  com- 
mand but  contented  myself  with  saluting  him  re- 
spectfully. He  then  repeated  his  gesture  with 
more  impatience  and  irritation,  this  time  covering 
his  head  with  his  dastar,  a  miter  of  yellow  silk 
somewhat  recalling  the  bonnet  of  the  Venetian 
doge.  At  this  moment  I  felt  myself  violently 
seized  by  policemen  armed  to  the  teeth,  who 


HYDERABAD  AND  GOLCONDA       199 

hustled  and  dragged  me  off  in  spite  of  my  protes- 
tations. In  vain  did  I  allege  my  good  faith,  my 
pacific  intentions ;  in  vain  did  I  produce  from  my 
pocket-book  the  vice-regal  recommendation  which 
had  been  delivered  to  me  in  Calcutta.  It  was  of 
no  use  and,  moreover,  the  fanatical  crowd 
swarmed  around  me  and  threatened  to  do  me 
harm.  Then  my  boy  exhorted  me  to  prudence  in 
this  independent  State  where  the  English  control 
is  insufficiently  exercised ;  and  I  retraced  my  steps, 
outraged  at  this  uncivil  and  summary  incident. 

The  next  day,  of  course,  I  complained  vehe- 
mently before  the  British  Commissioner  of  the  dis- 
courteous treatment  to  which,  without  the  least 
appearance  of  provocation  on  my  part,  I  had  been 
subjected.  Everything  leads  me  to  believe  that  the 
Resident's  rebuke  had  a  good  effect,  for  two  hours 
later  an  aide-de-camp  of  His  Highness  came  to 
explain  to  me  in  ludicrous  terms  that  there  had 
been  a  misunderstanding  on  my  part,  that  his 
Master,  in  inviting  me  to  withdraw,  had  had  only 
the  idea  of  preserving  me  from  jostling  or  event- 
ual ill-treatment  by  his  subjects.  His  High- 
ness, he  assured  me,  deeply  regretted  the  incident. 
He  offered  me  his  carriages,  his  automobiles  and 
even  one  of  his  chamberlains  as  a  guide  to  palliate 
the  first  bad  impression.  I  received  these  excuses 


200  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

coldly  and  declined  the  offers  of  the  intermediary, 
adding  that  as  a  guest  who  had  been  magnificently 
received  by  the  Maharajahs  of  Kapurthala,  Jey- 
pore,  Gwalior,  Cooch-Behar,  etc.,  I  could  expect 
nothing  more  from  the  princely  hospitality  of  In- 
dia. I  have  never  known — or  cared,  for  that  mat- 
ter— whether  or  not  this  little  well-merited  lesson 
bore  its  fruit. 

In  regard  to  this  same  potentate,  here  is  a  typi- 
cal anecdote  which  I  shall  give  in  its  entirety. 

One  day  when  he  was  walking  in  the  streets, 
without  ceremony,  with  his  little  son,  the  Crown 
Prince,  he  noticed  a  small  boy  who  held  on  his 
fist,  as  is  the  fashion  in  Hyderabad,  a  red-tailed 
nightingale,  fastened  by  a  string  to  his  foot.  On 
hearing  the  impassioned  trills  of  the  bird  vir- 
tuoso, the  royal  child  was  deeply  stirred. 

"I  wish  I  could  have  it!"  he  murmured  in  ec- 
stasy, his  hands  clasped. 

"Very  well,"  said  the  Nizam.  And,  addressing 
one  of  his  officers,  -"Go,"  he  said,  "buy  me  that 
nightingale  for  700  rupees." 

"Seven  hundred  rupees!"  exclaimed  the  courtier. 
"But  Your  Highness  can  get  it  without  difficulty 
for  700  annas!" 

"Ah,  is  that  so !"  returned  the  sovereign,  frown- 


ing.  "Indeed!  But  this  time  I  wish  to  pay  7,000 
rupees.  Go,  bring  me  the  bird  and  a  receipt." 

Ostentatious,  omnipotent,  capricious — and  bar- 
baric, a  good  many  of  them  are  still  like  that! 

For  the  rest,  as  this  man  has  died  since  my  trip 
through  his  States,  peace  to  his  ashes! 

The  next  day  is  the  great  Mohammedan  feast  of 
Moharram:  three  hundred  elephants,  a  hundred 
and  twenty  camels,  caparisoned  in  scarlet,  more 
than  a  thousand  horses  and  mules,  their  brows 
covered  with  masks  that  give  their  noses  the  ap- 
pearance of  beaks,  pass  in  a  procession  under  the 
Char-Minar  and  along  the  great  arteries  of  the 
city.  A  regular  army  which  I  estimate  at  approxi- 
mately thirty  thousand  men  files  past  the  palace 
of  the  sultan,  preceded  by  its  standards  and  music; 
mercenary  battalions  of  Arab  infantry  from  Hed- 
jaz  follow  it.  The  guns  thunder,  the  rifles  crack, 
the  people  shout.  Standing  up  on  the  coachman's 
seat  in  my  carriage,  so  that  I  may  look  down  on 
the  yelling,  stamping  crowd,  I  take  many  snap- 
shots. Oh!  the  harmonious  and  intensely  Oriental 
mixture  of  all  these  colored  stuffs,  agitated  by  a 
pious  delirium!  And  what  a  variety  of  shades  in 
these  turbans  and  head-dresses  that  range  from 
purple  to  crimson  and  amaranth,  from  lilac  to  dark 
violet,  from  ocher  to  sulphur  and  saffron,  from 


202  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

green-blue  to  olive-green,  from  beige  to  sepia  and 
chestnut,  from  royal  blue  to  dull  turquoise!  .  .  . 
"Out  of  the  way!"  the  j<m-runners  cry,  shaking 
their  fly-chasers  before  a  closed  coach.  Through 
the  gaping  shutters,  I  distinguish  a  white  cloak 
falling  over  a  sari  of  salmon  brocade.  It  is  a 
woman,  a  woman  of  the  nobility,  a  princess  no 
doubt.  My  coachman  pulls  his  horses  to  one  side: 
"Prime  Minister's  lady,  Sir!"  He  has  recognized 
the  livery.  The  carriage  passes  and  I  breathe  for  a 
moment  the  faint  perfume  of  amber  and  benjamin. 
Was  she  beautiful  perhaps?  Ah!  who  can  express 
the  tormenting  secrecy  of  these  veils!  And  the 
enigmatic  smile  which  hides  behind  them!  And 
the  harmonious  flight  of  these  draperies,  many- 
colored  or  even  uniformly  white,  which  mold, 
perhaps,  the  body  of  an  antique  goddess,  the  finely 
arched  form  of  a  pre-Homeric  virgin! 

This  mirage  of  Asia  is  still  in  my  eyes  two  days 
later  when  I  let  my  dreamy  glance  wander  over 
what  remains  today  of  enchanting  Golconda.  This 
mirage  peoples  with  life,  in  my  eyes,  the  streets, 
palaces,  mosques,  harems,  baths  and  bazaars  of 
the  City  of  Diamonds,  which  has  now  become  the 
City  of  Silence. 

Before  arriving  at  the  august  ruins,  I  have 
skirted,  in  company  with  a  student,  the  steep  bank 


HYDERABAD  AND  GOLCONDA       203 

of  a  fish-pond  which  bears  the  pretty  name  of  Mir- 
Allam.  Here  of  old  the  royal  wives  and  courte- 
sans came  to  go  sailing  on  a  galley  with  sails  of 
stretched  silk;  no  indiscreet  glance  could  reach 
these  sumptuous  captives.  Only  the  thin,  nasal 
song  of  the  eunuchs  scanned,  to  the  sound  of  the 
vina,  the  sister  of  our  guitar,  the  cadenced  breath- 
ing of  the  rowers.  A  twilight  of  dream  has  fallen 
over  weary  Golconda,  whose  interminable,  cren- 
elated encircling  walls  seemed  to  serve  as  a  sup- 
port to  the  galloping  hordes  of  nocturnal  clouds, 
amid  which  the  first  stars  were  beginning  to  shine. 
Before  me  stretches  the  gray,  dusty  road,  kept 
in  order  here  and  there  by  a  gang  of  women  of 
the  district.  And  soon  here  I  am  before  the  gates 
of  the  first  circular  rampart  which  once  measured 
seventeen  kilometers.  They  are  covered  with  iron, 
these  gates,  and  also  studded  with  sharp  points,  to 
prevent  the  war  elephants  from  shaking  them  with 
blows  of  their  tusks  or  from  rubbing  their  backs 
against  them  for  sport.  The  Nizam,  I  am  assured, 
provides  for  their  upkeep,  as  well  as  for  the  re- 
pairs to  the  second,  enclosing  wall,  within  which 
fabulous  treasures  may  still  be  heaped  up,  pell- 
mell,  in  ingenious  and  unknown  hiding-places.  In 
the  court  separating  this  first  wall  from  the  second 
there  are  heaps  of  stone  and  cast-iron  cannon  balls, 


204  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

arms  of  all  sorts  and  also  machines  for  a  siege  that 
recall  the  ballista,  the  battering-rams  and  the  cat- 
apults of  heroic  Troy.  There  are  endless  stairs 
and  steps,  a  second  iron-covered  door,  at  a  turn- 
ing, then  an  inclined  plane  by  which  I  reach  Gol- 
conda  proper. 

What  devastation!  Aurengzeb  the  Mogul  has 
passed  here.  .  .  .  There  is  no  harmony  of  bright 
colors  to  spread  their  warmth  over  this  sad  gray- 
ness.  It  would  fill  a  painter  with  consternation 
and  ravish  an  architect.  For  these  speaking  ruins 
have  preserved  their  ancient  style,  still  uplifting 
their  delicate  profiles  among  the  enormous  blocks 
of  gray  granite,  as  irregular  as  those  of  the  ruins 
of  Apremont  and  Franchard.  One's  foot  stumbles 
and  slips  over  the  debris:  cracked  cisterns,  circu- 
lar roads  overgrown  with  brambles,  crumbling 
underground  vaults,  gaping  oubliettes,  mosques 
tottering  on  their  foundations.  A  high  wind  might 
knock  it  all  down.  Nothing  is  left  of  its  grandeur 
and  power  but  a  memory,  clinging  to  a  few  cracked 
and  falling  stones. 

But  how  beautiful  it  is !  Majestically  and  tragi- 
cally beautiful!  Beautiful  as  the  loved  face  of  a 
dead  grandmother!  The  same  serenity,  the  same 
self-communion,  the  same  peace.  .  .  . 


TANJORE — THE    GREAT    PAGODA    OF    THE    BLACK    BULL 


TANJORE — THE   TEMPLE  OF  SOBRAMANYE 


HYDERABAD  AND  GOLCONDA       205 

In  the  distance  is  the  stir  and  noise  of  Hydera- 
bad, all  white,  with  its  perpetual  holiday  air. 

Yesterday — which  is  no  more — feels  mounting 
close  to  it  the  living  Today. 


CHAPTER  XX 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  DUPLEIX 

Pondichery  and  the  Adrian  Bonhoure  project — A  few  words 
about  the  Tamil  race — Remnants  of  the  past — We  go  as 
far  as  Villianur — The  dancing-girl  trick — Madras,  a 
mirage  of  Europe. 

F  the  magnificent  heritage  of  Du- 
pleix,  Bussy,  Mahe  de  la  Bourdon- 
nais  and  Lally-Tollendal,  there  re- 
mains to  us  today  only  a  modest,  a 
sort  of  honorific  legacy  the  import- 
ance of  which,  economically  speak- 
ing, is,  except  for  Pondichery,  almost  nil. 

England,  even  if  it  is  in  a  friendly  fashion,  hems 
in  our  settlements.  Our  scattered  possessions,  such 
as  Yanaon,  Karikal,  Mahe,  Chandernagor,  the 
quarter  in  Dacca  and  other  enclosed  territories 
have  no  connection  with  one  another.  The  ter- 
ritory of  Pondichery  alone  is  held  entirely  or  al- 
most entirely  under  one  control.  One  of  our  most 
distinguished  colonial  administrators,  M.  Adrian 

Bonhoure — who  presided  so  happily  over  the  de- 

206 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  DUPLEIX     207 

velopment  of  New  Caledonia,  then  of  Tahiti  and 
its  dependencies,  finally  of  Djibouti,  our  flourish- 
ing Somali  sea-coast — conceived  in  1909,  when  he 
was  Governor  of  French  India,  a  vast  and  beauti- 
ful project  the  aim  of  which  was  the  enlargement 
and  unification  of  our  domain  of  Pondichery  by 
means  of  the  reconveyance  to  the  English  of  our 
settlements  of  Chandernagor,  Mahe,  Karikal  and 
Yanaon.  It  was  an  essentially  practical  plan,  since 
it  permitted  the  French  colonial  effort,  instead  of 
dissipating  itself  sterilely,  to  be  directed  effica- 
ciously to  a  single  outlet,  benefiting  at  once  by  one 
port  and  one  railway  system.  The  enclosed  terri- 
tories, a  perpetual  cause  of  disagreement  and  liti- 
gation, would  disappear.  We  should  gain  for  our 
business  a  unity  of  plan  and  a  celerity  in  realizing 
it.  Our  neighbors  across  the  channel,  after  a  few 
formalities,  seemed  well-disposed  towards  this 
friendly  arrangement.  It  was  from  France  that 
the  obstruction  came,  from  France  where  our  un- 
lucky and  quite  national  ignorance  of  geographi- 
cal and  colonial  questions  prevented  us  from 
grasping  the  utilitarian  import  of  such  a  trans- 
action. The  chauvinistic  press  was  roused ;  it  cried 
haro  on  those  impious  souls  who  proposed  to  sell 
Chandernagor  at  auction,  alleging  that  this  would 
be  to  attack  the  History  of  France,  to  profane  the 


208  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

memory  of  Dupleix,  to  disfigure  his  work  .  .  . 
such  were  the  headlines  of  the  sensational  front- 
page articles.  At  once  a  movement  formed  itself 
in  favor  of  the  statu  quo.  Parliament  itself  judged 
the  suggestion  inopportune,  even  questionable. 
And  the  affair  was  closed,  to  the  great  joy  of  cer- 
tain functionaries  and  electors  whom  the  reform 
would  probably  have  injured.  Therefore,  M. 
Adrian  Bonhoure,  broken-hearted,  had  to  put  his 
plan  away  among  his  papers.  Oh,  heedless  met- 
ropolitanism !  Oh,  centralization !  * 

There  are  two  ways  of  reaching  Pondichery,  by 
sea,  on  board  the  Messageries  Maritimes,  from 
Colombo  or  Calcutta,  by  land,  by  taking  the  great 
English  line  which  unites  Tuticorin  to  Madras, 
changing  at  the  branch  station  of  Villupuram.  It 
was  by  this  latter  method  of  transportation  that  I 
reached  the  capital  of  our  French  settlements  in 
India.  This  territory  of  Pondichery  has  belonged 
to  us  since  1872.  The  city  was  founded  two  years 
later  by  Francois  Martin.  Its  area  can  be  esti- 
mated at  about  29,145  hectares,  of  which  2,004  are 

*As  this  work  is  appearing,  we  have  reason  to  believe  that,  on  the 

enlightened  initiative  of  M.  Albert  Sarraut,  Deputy  from  Aude 

who  was  twice  the  eminent  Governor-General  of  our  Indo-China  and 
contributed  so  powerfully  to  its  present  prosperity — this  Minister  for 
the  Colonies  has  resumed  the  study  of  this  project,  awaiting  the  op- 
portunity to  carry  it  out  as  after-the-war  circumstances,  colonial  and 
diplomatic,  may  permit 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  DUPLEIX     209 

wooded,  9,707  uncultivated  land,  and  the  rest  con- 
sists of  rice  and  other  plantations. 

The  principal  resources  are  rice,  indigo, 
copra,  tapioca,  earth-nuts,  betel,  poppies,  etc. 
Several  sorts  of  cotton  cloth  are  manufactured 
there,  and  the  most  highly  esteemed  are  dyed  blue. 
I  must  mention  in  passing  the  great  spinning  mill 
at  Savannah  which  employs  more  than  2,000 
workers.  As  for  a  few  details  about  the  inhabi- 
tants: the  Pondicherians  are  deeply  bronzed  and 
of  the  Dravidian  race.  The  men,  who  are  darker 
skinned  than  the  Cingalese,  are  very  scantily  clad: 
on  the  head  a  sort  of  turban,  about  the  loins  a  piece 
of  white  muslin.  And  that  is  all !  I  hasten  to  add 
that  the  women's  costume  is  slightly  less  rudi- 
mentary: a  little  short  vest  confines  their  breasts, 
leaving  bare  the  arms  and  the  abdomen ;  a  waist- 
cloth  falls  from  the  hips  to  the  knees.  Their  walk 
is  plastic  and  one  cannot  but  admire  the  outline 
and  the  movement  of  their  shoulders  and  their 
arms  as  they  balance  great  vessels  of  shining  cop- 
per on  their  heads.  With  one's  eyes  shut,  in  the 
middle  of  the  night,  in  the  darkest  stree.t,  one 
would  immediately  know  the  Tamil  woman  sim- 
ply by  the  clinking  of  her  ornaments,  her  neck- 
laces, bracelets  and  rings  which,  covering  her  from 
head  to  foot,  make  her  sound  like  an  Andalusian 


210  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

mule.  Like  many  other  Indian  women,  she  wears 
a  little  gold  button  ornamented  with  pearls 
screwed  into  the  nostril,  or,  more  often,  a  large 
ring  of  gold  or  silver  wire  at  the  partition  of  the 
nose.  Widows,  on  the  other  hand,  are  entirely 
without  trinkets  and  have  their  heads  shaved. 

From  the  station,  which  is  in  British  territory 
and  on  which  the  name  is  written  in  the  English 
style,  Pondicherry — I  make  my  way,  in  a  four- 
wheeled  rickshaw,  to  the  Southern  Quarter  to  pay 
my  first  homage  as  a  newly  arrived  Frenchman 
to  the  statue  of  Dupleix.  Our  glorious  compatriot, 
whose  name  ought  to  remain  engraved  imperish- 
ably  on  our  hearts  by  the  side  of  Montcalm's,  is 
represented  with  his  hand  on  the  hilt  of  his  sword, 
bare-headed,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  waves  that  come 
to  die  on  the  strand.  The  pedestal  and  the  eight 
rostral  columns  that  surround  it  were  brought 
from  the  now  ruined  temple  of  Gingi.  I  admire 
the  fine  sculptures,  very  Indian  in  manner  and 
harmonious  as  a  whole.  Opposite,  a  boom  serves 
as  a  landing-bridge;  a  double  rail  transports  to  it 
the  merchandise  brought  by  the  chelingues,  a  sort 
of  canoe  with  eight  or  ten  rowers.  A  few  steps 
from  the  statue,  on  a  large  square,  rises  a  little 
pavilion  or  rather  a  fountain,  and  the  palace  of 
the  governor,  the  flat  roof  and  European  pillars  of 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  DUPLE/ X     211 

which,  in  the  style  of  the  Bourse  or  the  Madeleine, 
are  a  little  out  of  place  in  the  midst  of  this  exotic 
scenery.  How  greatly  I  prefer  the  cathedral  of 
the  foreign  missions  with  its  Jesuit  or  Rococo 
architecture,  which  clearly  belongs  to  its  own 
eighteenth  century,  and  the  little  white  provincial 
houses  of  the  Rue  Royale,  the  Rue  Dupleix,  the 
Rue  St.  Louis  and  the  Rue  Quay  de  la  Ville 
Blanche! 

I  see  them  slipping  past,  one  after  another,  those 
low  dwellings,  whitened  with  chalk,  in  the  inte- 
riors of  which  one  not  infrequently  perceives  a 
Louis  XV  pier-glass  or  a  parquet  floor  of  lozenged 
oak.  In  this  setting,  a  little  affected  and  man- 
nered, once  danced  perhaps  the  red-heeled  gallants 
and  the  furbelowed  marquises  of  whom  that 
strange  Jeanne  de  Castro,  otherwise  Madame 
Dupleix,  was  the  vicereine.  Today  the  occupants 
of  those  pretty  little  houses  are  only  Creoles  who 
have  emigrated  from  Mauritius  or  Bourbon  Island 
when  they  are  not,  quite  simply,  half-breed  Eura- 
sians, and  dirty  at  that.  The  days  follow  one 
another.  .  .  . 

I  am  thinking  of  all  this,  in  a  melancholy  way, 
while  two  men  push  and  one  pulls  me  in  a  little 
Pondicherian  vehicle  towards  the  Pagoda  of  Vil- 
lianur,  situated  a  few  miles  distant  in  the  French 


212  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

enclosure.  I  use  this  word  "enclosure"  intention- 
ally, for  we  had  to  make  no  less  than  five  or  six 
successive  passages  over  territory  that  was  alter- 
nately French  and  English  in  order  to  reach  this 
temple.  One  can  form  some  idea  from  this  of  the 
iacessant  difficulties  that  the  respective  neighbor- 
ing proprietors  of  these  frontier  domains  experi- 
ence. Traveling  at  the  rate  of  about  two  kilo- 
meters an  hour,  the  two  men  pushing  behind  and 
the  one  who  is  pulling  in  front  contrive  to  stream 
with  sweat;  their  bronzed  faces  turn  toward  me  at 
times  and  interrogate  me  with  good-natured,  lazy 
smiles.  Is  it  really  absolutely  necessary  that  I 
should  go  as  far  as  the  pagoda?  The  truth  is  that, 
in  my  inmost  heart,  I  feel  somewhat  shame-faced, 
lounging  all  by  myself  in  this  little  four-wheeled 
cart,  surmounted  by  a  parasol;  I  look  like  an  in- 
valid in  a  merry  mood.  But  how  can  I  do  other- 
wise? It  is  the  only  practicable  method  of  loco- 
motion in  Pondichery.  (What  a  world  of  comfort 
and  speed  separates  these  grating,  jolting  arm- 
chairs on  wheels  from  the  flexible,  delicious  rick- 
shaws, with  their  pneumatic  tires,  of  Saigon!) 

The  first  persons  we  pass  on  the  road  are  a  squad 
of  French  Sepoys,  quite  military  in  their  bearing. 
Some  of  them,  seeing  me  crammed  into  the  corner 
of  my  little  wagon,  have  a  mocking  smile  in  the 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  DUPLE! X     213 

corner  of  their  lips.  What  can  you  expect?  They 
are  voters  like  myself  and  from  universal  suffrage, 
especially  in  a  colonial  land,  we  can  ask  nothing 
but  strict  equality,  however  familiar  and  contemp- 
tuous. In  the  fields  the  peasants  are  busy  with 
their  picoites,  by  means  of  which  they  draw  water 
from  the  wells — a  sort  of  see-saw,  like  those  which 
we  observe  every  day  in  the  outskirts  of  Cairo 
and  which  they  set  in  motion  by  walking  from  one 
end  to  the  other  of  the  tilting  beam.  Finally,  after 
having  crossed  or  skirted  a  maze  of  canals  shaded 
by  palm-trees,  as  pleasing  in  their  appearance  as 
those  I  admired  yesterday  at  Coudepacom,  we 
reach  the  famous  pagoda. 

These  six  kilometers  have  seemed  interminable 
to  me;  and  my  first  care,  on  arriving  at  the  vil- 
lage, over  which  floats  our  national  flag,  is  to  de- 
mand with  hue  and  cry  a  cool,  sparkling  soda, 
lightly  colored  with  whisky.  My  men,  more  sober, 
content  themselves  with  cocoanut  milk.  An  old 
Brahman  then  approaches  me  and  in  an  evil 
Anglo-French  jargon  whispers  to  me  some  indis- 
tinct and  mysterious  sentences:  "Yes,  master,  moi 
connaise  belle  danseuse  .  .  .  three  rupees  only 
.  .  .  tres  attractif  toi  verrasl" 

I  know  this  dancing-girl  trick  of  his ;  it  has  al- 


2i4  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

ready  been  played  on  me  several  times.  It  is  a 
classic  trick  of  the  indigenous  artful  dodger  who 
dresses  his  daughter  up  in  tinsel,  covers  her  with 
bells  and  sets  her  jigging  before  the  blissful  Euro- 
pean. I  leave  this  worthy  discomfited  and  make 
my  way  to  the  sacred  pond,  on  the  bank  of  which 
I  sit  down.  Before  me  there  is  a  little  pagoda 
surrounded  by  water,  behind  which  are  outlined 
in  the  background  pyramidal  gopuras.  It  is  all, 
I  must  confess,  very  like  what  I  have  already  seen 
elsewhere,  but  a  chauvinistic  pride  seizes  me  be- 
cause this  temple  is  ours,  the  last  vestige  of  our 
dominion  in  this  country  which  is  so  firmly  at- 
tached to  the  Brahmanistic  dogmas.  Besides,  this 
little  pagoda  of  Villianur  is  one  of  the  prettiest 
things,  architecturally  speaking,  in  which  our 
French  eyes  can  take  pride.  I  have  not  found  its 
equal  either  in  Mahe  or  in  Chandernagor.  On 
this  score  alone  did  I  not  owe  it  the  honor  of  a 
visit? 

I  return  to  my  rickshaw  and  find  the  old  im- 
presario there  chanting  his  couplet  to  me  again: 
"Yes,  master,  toi  jamais  vue  si  beautiful  bayadere 
.  .  .  moi  y  en  a,  f  aire  danser  lotus,  cobra,  peacock." 

I  fling  him  a  handful  of  annas,  for  the  probable 
cost  of  the  disguise,  and  I  hear  him  murmuring  to 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  DUPLEIX     215 

my   astonished   boy,    "That's   a   Parisian.  ...  I 
know!" 

And  now,  since  this  morning  and  for  a  few 
hours,  here  I  am  at  Madras.  Madras — that  is  to 
say,  a  sudden  return  to  the  things  of  Europe  which 
— with  no  offense  to  lovers  of  local  color — also 
have  their  good  side.  Who,  in  fact,  can  describe 
the  Edenlike  charm  of  a  good  bath  in  a  bath-tub 
after  the  too  truly  tublike  tub  of  India!  And  the 
delight  of  a  drive  in  a  real  carriage  along  a  clean, 
level  highway,  without  bumps  or  ruts!  And  the 
sybaritic  consumption  in  the  "tea-room"  of  well- 
buttered  toast  and  muffins! 

Is  not  Madras,  after  Calcutta  and  Bombay,  the 
largest  city  of  British  India?  As  the  capital  of 
the  presidency  of  the  same  name  and  the  residence 
of  the  governor,  it  has  never  ceased  to  be  the  seat 
of  the  government  and  of  a  Court  of  Appeals  and 
numbers  today  nearly  half  a  million  inhabitants. 
Its  surface  is  so  spread  out  that  every  cottage  has 
its  little  garden,  and  many  vast  dwellings  and  pal- 
aces are  surrounded  by  a  park.  This  privileged 
situation  (which  reminds  me  somewhat  of  Wel- 
tevreden,  the  elegant  quarter  of  Batavia)  permits 
everyone,  without  leaving  his  home  and  in  the 
very  center  of  the  city,  to  imagine  himself  in  the 


216  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

country  and  to  have  all  its  pleasures.  Quick!  be- 
fore dinner  at  the  "D'Angelis,"  a  short  ride  in  a 
victoria  about  the  city!  Am  I  in  India?  Impos- 
ing modern  monuments  follow  one  another  like 
stepping-stones  along  the  beach  on  a  strip  of  earth 
twenty  kilometers  by  twelve  in  length:  the  Col- 
lege, the  High  Court  of  Justice,  which  is  crowned 
by  the  lighthouse,  the  Museum  of  Art  and  Com- 
merce. Other  buildings,  like  the  Shepauk  Build- 
ing, the  former  residence  of  the  nawabs  of  the  Car- 
natic,  are  visibly  inspired  by  the  Doric,  Ionic,  and 
Saracen  orders  and,  like  the  Theosophical  Lodge 
and  the  School  of  Arts,  also  attract  my  attention. 
One  must  not  fail  to  visit  this  School  of  Arts,  for 
in  it  one  can  see  the  natives  revealing  all  their 
aptitude  for  ceramics,  engraving  on  metals,  beaten 
copper  work,  sculpture,  painting,  enameling,  etc. 
.  .  .  Afterwards  I  go  to  Fort  St.  George,  where 
one  finds  the  first  English  church  built  in  India 
(1678-1680),  not  far  from  the  black  city  and  the 
bazaars,  then  to  the  People's  Park  and  the  Botan- 
ical Gardens,  where  splendid  tigers  are  roaring. 
And,  without  my  giving  him  any  order,  as  if 
mechanically,  the  irreproachable  driver  of  my 
comfortable  victoria  takes  me  along  the  boulevard 
of  the  Ramina  Road,  on  which  the  British  and 
Tamil  elegance  of  Madras  is  accustomed  to  gather 


MADURA — THE    PALACE   OF   THE    ANCIENT   RAJAH    WHO    WAS 
DISPOSSESSED 


THE   SACRED   ROCK  OF  TRICHINOPOLY 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  DUPLEIX     217 

each  evening  to  enjoy  the  cool  of  the  day  and  the 
music  while  they  consume  ices  and  sherbets. 

This  Marina  Road,  why,  it's  the  Promenade  des 
Anglais  at  Nice,  it's  the  jetty  at  Ostend! 

I  pinch  my  elbow  to  see  if  I  am  really 
awake  1  . 


CHAPTER  XXI 


THE  TEMPLES  OF  COROMANDEL 

Tanjore  and  its  bull  of  black  marble — The  jewel  of  Sobramanye 
— Bad  taste  of  native  royalty — The  sacred  rock  of 
Trichinopoly — Sri-Ragham  and  its  20,000  Brahmans. 


N  leaving  Madras  to  go  to  Tanjore 
and  then  to  Trichinopoly,  the  city 
of  the  monolith,  one  is  struck  by 
the  exuberance  of  the  tropical  vege- 
tation. Everywhere  are  clumps 
of  cabbage  palms,  cocoanut  trees, 
bananas,  cut  here  and  there  by  masses  of  violet 
bougainvilliers  and  purple  hibiscus.  All  this  ver- 
dure sways  and  undulates  above  immense  green 
rice-fields.  A  smiling,  enchanting  country,  if 
there  ever  was  one! 

Several  architects,  English  as  well  as  French, 
who  had  journeyed  to  India  before  me,  had  espe- 
cially recommended  to  my  attention  the  Temple  of 
Tanjore  as  offering,  with  those  of  Madura  and 
Sri-Ragham,  the  most  perfect  examples  of  the 
Dravidian  style.  "That  of  Tanjore,  above  all," 

218 


THE  TEMPLES  OF  COROMANDEL      219 

they  told  me,  "has  the  merit  of  not  too  greatly 
shocking  our  European  aesthetic  conceptions.  It 
cannot  fail  to  charm  you;  it  is  a  masterpiece,  an 
adorable  masterpiece,  consecrated  to  the  glory  of 
Sobramanye  and  giving  the  impression  of  a  piece 
of  jewelry,  artistically  worked  out  to  the  last 
detail." 

To  find  my  way  there  I  pass,  as  soon  as  I  have 
arrived,  through  the  big  and  little  forts  of  the 
ancient  citadel;  by  means  of  shaking  old  draw- 
bridges, I  cross  deep  moats  close  against  the 
crenelated  encircling  wall.  Then  suddenly  I  find 
myself  in  an  immense  paved  court.  Here  rises  the 
great  pagoda,  the  gopura  of  which,  covered  with 
symbolic  figures,  is  more  than  two  hundred  feet 
high  and  has  thirteen  tiers  crowned  with  a  mono- 
lithic dome.  A  few  feet  away  rises  the  colossal 
reclining  bull  of  black  marble  (representing  Siva) 
which  is  called  Nandy  and  measures  not  less  than 
thirteen  feet  in  height.  It  is  surrounded  by  a  rail- 
ing to  the  bars  of  which  the  faithful  are  accus- 
tomed to  fasten  gifts  and  votive  offerings.  Above 
my  head,  the  vault  of  the  pavilion  which  shelters 
the  idol  is  decorated  with  many-colored  frescoes 
of  the  most  striking  effect. 

I  advance  a  hundred  feet  to  the  right  of  the 
square,  towards  the  jewel  of  Sobramanye,  which 


220  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

attracts  and  fascinates  me.  And  slowly,  as  one 
tastes  an  old  Roman  portal  or  a  Gothic  rose-win- 
dow, I  make  the  tour  of  the  building  and  pick  out 
its  beauties,  one  by  one.  They  are  exquisite,  these 
somber  sculptures  which,  owing  to  their  lightness, 
one  might  easly  mistake  for  wood-carvings!  On 
the  other  hand  there  is  nothing  very  striking  to  be 
noted  in  the  interior  in  which  reigns  a  mysterious 
obscurity  and  which  one  reaches  by  a  flight  of 
steps,  bordered  on  each  side  by  a  finely  carved  but 
massive  balustrade  of  stone.  But  the  chief  char- 
acteristic of  this  little  monument,  that  which  most 
particularly  arouses  one's  admiration,  is  the  purity 
of  line  of  the  general  plan,  the  regularity  and  soli- 
darity of  the  courses  and  the  basements;  finally, 
the  almost  Greek  simplicity  shown  by  the  work- 
men who  cut  these  rigorously  cylindrical  pillars, 
which  one  would  swear  were  inspired*  by  those  of 
the  Theseion  at  Athens. 

Strange  that  a  people  who  created  such  admir- 
able masterpieces  should  have  degenerated  in  our 
day  to  the  point  of  ignoring,  almost  disliking  them, 
and  in  any  case  of  preferring  to  them  such  somber 
horrors  as,  for  example,  the  so-called  "palace"  of 
the  deposed  ex-Rajah  of  Tanjore,  whose  descend- 
ants are  today  pensioned  by  England!  Certainly 
I  should  not  care  to  share  the  enthusiasm  of  my 


THE  TEMPLES  OF  COROMANDEL      221 

good  boy,  Subbaraya-Pillai",  for  that  large  and  in- 
significant white  building  which  was  shown  to  us 
by  a  ragged  guardian.  I  had  to  hold  myself  in 
so  as  not  to  burst  out  laughing  at  the  incoherent 
decorations  of  the  rooms,  the  bad  taste  of  this  petty 
provincial  establishment,  the  ridiculous  portraits 
of  the  sovereigns,  smeared  on  by  some  wretched 
dauber,  the  treasures  (worthy  of  the  boutique  a 
treize!)  of  the  present  Ranee,  who  is  more  than 
seventy  years  of  age,  and  the  modern  lusters,  dusty, 
heavy,  absurd,  unquestionably  imported  from 
Diisseldorf  or  Leipzig. 

Poor  na'ive  kinglets! 

And,  dreaming,  I  invoke  the  splendor  of  the 
vanished  ages,  the  great  ancestors  of  these  folk 
who  raised  those  holy  stones  to  the  glory  of  their 
gods,  the  sublime  builders  of  the  pagoda  and  the 
little  temple.  In  the  street,  just  now,  a  Moham- 
medan procession  winds  past  to  the  sound  of  a 
barbaric  and  yet  harmonious  music;  the  crowd 
makes  way  before  the  trophies,  the  standards,  the 
fifes  and  the  madly  beating  tom-toms ;  the  acolytes 
of  the  priests  throw  ashes  over  the  bent  heads; 
three  elephants,  two  camels,  richly  caparisoned 
horses  led  by  the  hands  of  the  Sepoys,  close  the 
march.  This  stately  procession  makes  its  way 
toward  a  pond  of  stagnant  water,  where  sterile 


222  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

women  come  to  bathe,  the  banks  of  which  are  peo- 
pled with  monkeys. 

The  sun  sinks  slowly  over  a  vision  of  what  must 
once  have  been  the  splendor  of  the  kings  of  Tan- 
jore,  a  splendor  that  today  is  fallen  forever. 

Of  Trichinopoly,  a  large  city  of  91,000  inhabi- 
tants, watered  by  the  Cauvery,  there  is  nothing 
very  much  to  be  said.  The  interest  of  the  visit 
lies  exclusively  in  the  ascent  of  an  enormous  rock, 
236  feet  high,  on  the  flat  top  of  which  rises  a  fort 
and  a  temple  dedicated,  to  Siva.  One  reaches  it 
by  a  stairway  of  about  three  hundred  steps  cut  in 
the  solid  rock  and  skirting  a  line  of  little  chapels 
generally  consecrated  to  the  worship  of  Vishnu. 
From  the  terrace  one  looks  down  over  a  magical 
view :  from  the  foot  of  the  rock  rises  the  long  mur- 
mur of  the  town,  the  river  stretches  out  its  silver 
moire  ribbon,  the  palm  forest  undulates  in  the 
little  shivers  of  the  wind.  Bells,  ringing,  scatter 
their  pious  notes  on  the  air;  it  is  the  brass  clappers 
of  Saint  Joseph's  College,  which  is  directed  by  the 
French  Jesuit  fathers,  calling  the  students  to 
prayer.  The  history  of  India  tells  us  that  in  this 
city  there  took  place,  in  the  eighteenth  century, 
memorable  battles  between  Dupleix  and  our  Eng- 
lish friends  of  today;  it  is  not  surprising,  therefore, 


THE  TEMPLES  OF  COROMANDEL     223 

that  the  French  tourist  should  find  there  many  a 
memory  and  vestige  of  the  former  inhabitants. 

Through  the  narrow  streets  of  the  lower  city, 
where  I  jostle  an  incessant  procession  of  carts 
drawn  by  zebus  or  little  nervous  horses,  I  drive 
to  the  temples  of  Sri-Ragham  and  Jambukeswar. 
The  former,  dedicated  to  Vishnu,  is  one  of  the 
most  gigantic  known;  its  outer  encircling  wall 
measures  no  less  than  2,475  ^eet  by  2,880  and  is 
twenty  feet  high ;  seven  successive  enclosing  walls, 
built  in  squares  and  separated  by  three  hundred 
and  fifty  feet  from  each  other,  surround  it  with 
their  massive  battlements;  the  central  enclosure, 
which  is  entered  only  by  the  officiating  priests, 
contains  relics;  the  total  population  of  Brahmans 
and  merchants  who  live  in  the  interior  of  this 
sanctuary  is  estimated  at  more  than  20,000  souls. 
From  the  architectural  point  of  view,  I  note  the 
first  entrance,  the  superstructure  of  which  is 
adorned  with  allegorical  frescoes  while  the  colon- 
nades seem  inspired  by  the  Doric  style.  Above 
the  walls  there  soar  into  the  air  the  twenty-one 
gopuras  or  pyramidal  bell-towers,  sculptured  and 
carefully  worked  like  the  doors  of  a  cathedral, 
with  this  difference,  that  the  statues  of  the  saints 
are  replaced  by  monsters  and  divinities  in  fero- 
cious, gesticulating  attitudes.  But  the  marvel  of 


224  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

marvels  is  undeniably  the  fagade  of  rearing  horses 
in  high  relief,  upholding  the  massive  entablature 
with  their  heads.  The  most  phlegmatic  European 
is  struck  dumb  with  admiration  in  the  presence 
of  these  incomparable  sculptures  whose  state  of 
preservation  is  perfect. 

The  pagoda  of  Jambukeswar  offers  a  certain 
analogy  with  the  great  temple  of  Tanjore:  there 
are  the  same  richly  sculptured  gopuras,  the  same 
sacred  ponds  with  greenish,  stagnant  water,  which 
seem  to  be  no  longer  used  by  the  pilgrims  for  their 
ablutions.  .  .  .  But  what  especially  characterizes 
this  monument,  which  is  dedicated  to  Siva,  is  the 
magnificent  series  of  columns  by  which  one  ap- 
proaches the  Holy  of  Holies,  where  a  sacred  ele- 
phant stands  guard  on  the  threshold.  Near  this 
emaciated  pachyderm,  my  guide  points  out  to  me 
a  fakir  thug,  of  the  sect  of  the  Stranglers  of  the 
Nerbuddah,  who  has  been  rendered  famous  by  his 
three  unsuccessful  attempts  at  suicide.  While 
quite  young,  having  submitted  to  the  ordeal  of  the 
Virvir,  of  the  Nirvanist  P'aousigars,  this  Dandu- 
Baba  had  himself  suspended  over  a  brazier  by  an 
iron  hook  fastened  into  the  flesh  of  his  back.  The 
muscles  tore  out  and  he  fell,  but  only  rolled  on  the 
burning  coals.  Later,  at  Benares,  having  fastened 
jars  pierced  with  holes  about  his  body,  the  fanatic 


THE  TEMPLES  OF  COROMANDEL       225 

flung  himself  into  the  Ganges,  which  little  by  little 
immersed  him.  But  he  was  pulled  out  in  time 
by  a  fisherman.  Finally,  at  Puri,  on  the  coast  of 
Orissa,  he  tried  to  get  himself  crushed  beneath 
the  car  of  Juggernaut.  But  the  front  wheels  hav- 
ing become  suddenly  wedged,  he  got  off  with  two 
crushed  fingers.  Since  then  he  has  resigned  him- 
self to  living  .  .  .  unless  some  day,  when  the 
sacred  elephant  has  eaten  too  much,  he  decides  to 
let  his  foot  come  down  on  him  like  a  pestle  1 


CHAPTER  XXII 


THE  HORRIFYING  COAST  OF  MALABAR 

Some  simple  ethnographical  remarks — With  the  French  Ad- 
ministrator of  Mahe — "Do  you  like  sardines?  They  have 
put  them  everywhere" — The  buffalo's  agony — Cochin,  the 
Indian  Venice — A  Court  of  Miracles — Nightmare  visions 
— White  and  Black  Jews — On  board  the  "pirate" 
Gneisenau! 


DO  not  know  why  the  classical  itin- 
erary for  the  traveler  in  the  South 
of  India  is  generally  limited  to  a 
visit  to  the  coast  of  Coromandel, 
disdaining  that  of  Malabar. 

Not  that  I  wish  to  dispute  the 
incontestable  architectural  superiority  of  the 
temples  of  the  former  to  those  of  the  latter,  which 
hardly  exist;  but  when  one  sets  out  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  a  country  as  many-sided,  as  va- 
ried, as  full  of  marvels  as  the  peninsula  of  Hindu- 
stan, it  does  not  do  to  take  as  one's  only  objective 
the  contemplation  of  sanctuaries  and  ancient  royal 
dwellings;  one  must  also  pay  attention  to  ethno- 
graphical problems,  to  the  enthralling  examination 

226 


THE  COAST  OF  MALABAR  227 

of  the  distinctive  characteristics  of  the  races,  to  the 
study  of  curious  customs,  varying  infinitely  one 
from  another.  Take,  for  example,  the  case  of  the 
Moplas,  a  mixed  race  of  the  Arab-Dravidians,  of 
the  Mussulman  faith,  who  appeared  at  the  time 
of  the  Portuguese,  especially  during  the  great  ex- 
peditions of  Vasco  de  Gama,  who  wear  that  queer- 
looking  turban  and  those  high  wooden  sandals  that 
recall  the  Japanese  clogs.  Later  on  I  shall  have 
occasion  to  speak  also  of  the  White  Jews  and  the 
Black  Jews  of  Cochin,  no  less  interesting  than  the 
Topas,  a  mixed  French,  Portuguese  and  Indian 
product,  settled  in  the  region  of  Mahe  and  Cali- 
cut. One  must  see  everything  in  India,  or  almost 
everything.  .  .  .  And  in  this  remaining  category 
I  shall  give  first  place  to  the  coast  of  Malabar. 

From  Erode  to  Calicut  is  an  extremely  pictur- 
esque trip ;  wooded  mountains,  rocks,  ponds  cov- 
ered with  reeds  and  abounding  in  water-fowl,  and 
above  which  soar  the  great  fisher-eagles,  with  their 
brown  plumage  and  white  heads.  The  mountain- 
ous appearance  of  the  country  is  a  relief  after  the 
plains  and  rice-fields  of  Coromandel.  But  how 
many  difficulties  lie  in  the  way  of  entering  this 
unhealthy  province,  where  cholera,  bubonic 
plague  and  leprosy  are  endemic — strangely 
enough,  since  the  land  is  well-aired  and  watered 


228  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

by  large  rivers,  very  much  like  those  of  the  South 
of  Ceylon.  In  order  to  be  able  to  stop  at  Calicut, 
at  Mahe,  at  Cochin,  I  was  obliged  to  fortify  my- 
self with  a  plague-passport,  which  certifies  that  I 
am  not  infected  with  any  of  the  aforementioned 
maladies — a  wise  measure  dictated  by  the  authori- 
ties in  the  desire  not  to  increase  the  scourge. 

After  a  short  stop  at  Calicut  (the  native  town 
of  calico,  dear  to  our  housewives,  where  I  hastily 
visit  a  cotton  spinning-mill)  I  reach  Mahe,  our 
charming  French  possession  on  the  Western  coast. 

There  I  am  received  and  treated  in  the  most 
hospitable  fashion  by  the  Colonial  Administrator, 
M.  Louit,  who  is  temporarily  replacing  M.  Bar- 
bier,  the  Resident.  Thanks  to  him  I  have  the 
honor  of  occupying  a  beautiful  room  in  the  Resi- 
dent's palace,  a  historic  chamber,  if  you  please, 
in  which  Dupleix  slept,  then  Mahe  de  la  Bour- 
donnais.  M.  Louit  takes  me  for  a  stroll  over  the 
ancient  crenelated  ramparts,  now  transformed  into 
terraces  and  gardens,  with  an  outlook  over  the 
sea  and  the  estuary  of  the  little  river  of  Mahe. 
I  could  imagine  myself  on  the  Riviera,  were  it  not 
for  just  that  little  river,  shaded  by  cocoanut  trees 
and  quite  Asiatic,  which  serves  as  a  frontier  for 
our  enclosure.  In  fact  a  wooden  bridge,  owned 
jointly,  separates — cordially,  I  may  say — the 


THE  COAST  OF  MALABAR  229 

French  shore  from  the  British  shore.  We  visit  the 
"native  village,"  and  its  quarter  inhabited  by  the 
half-breed  Topas.  I  say  native  village,  for  it  must 
not  be  imagined  that  there  exists  here  a  neighbor- 
ing little  French  or  European  quarter,  such  as 
there  is  at  Pondichery.  Like  Chandernagor,  Kari- 
kal  and  Yanaon,  Mahe  contains,  one  might  say, 
no  colonists.  If  in  each  of  these  settlements  you 
count  up  the  Administrator,  the  druggist,  the  mis- 
sionary and  two  or  three  good  Sisters,  you  will 
obtain  the  total  of  the  six  or  seven  persons  of  our 
nationality.  Oh!  pardon  me,  I  was  forgetting 
Mahe's  one  French  colonist,  a  certain  M.  de  la 
Haye-Jousselin,  a  widower  and  something  of  a 
misanthrope,  who  directs  an  important  sardine 
cannery  on  the  English  side  of  the  river!  This 
sardine  industry — for  the  fish  abound  in  these 
parts — ought  to  attract  to  Mahe  more  than  one 
of  our  Bretons  who  are  complaining  of  the  disap- 
pearance of  the  precious  fish  at  Douarnenez, 
Audierne  and  Concarneau.  Real  fortunes  might 
be  built  up  there  in  no  time:  the  cost  of  labor  is 
next  to  nothing  and  the  oil  of  the  earth-nuts,  popu- 
larly called  cacahouettes,  is  ready  to  one's  hand. 
The  only  thing  to  be  thought  of  is  the  soldering 
and  the  importation  of  boxes.  I  hope  my  appeal 
will  be  heard  and  understood,  but  in  a  somewhat 


230  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

more  patriotic  fashion  than  that  of  M.  de  la  Haye- 
Jousselin,  the  French  colonist  who  has  established 
himself  on  Anglo-Saxon  territory! 

And  those  sardines!  There  are  vast  quantities 
of  them,  too  many!  I  made  this  discouraging  dis- 
covery during  the  course  of  a  dinner  to  which  I 
was  asked  by  the  Administrator.  The  trouble  was 
caused  by  the  sardine  heads,  cut  off  and  flung  to 
the  chickens  and  animals  as  food:  creamed  eggs, 
fricasseed  chicken,  roast  duck  au  riz  creole  and 
with  hearts  of  palm,  yes,  everything  had  the  taste 
of  this  fish !  My  host  positively  tore  his  hair.  "It's 
frightful,"  he  said  to  me;  "shutting  up  my  fowls 
in  a  carefully  wired  enclosure  and  making  them 
fast  for  several  days  after  I  have  bought  them 
isn't  of  any  use.  Nothing  does  any  good.  I  believe 
the  air  itself  is  sar dined!" 

We  took  coffee  on  the  terrace,  by  moonlight. 
M.  Louit  extolled  to  me  the  resources  of  the  little 
colony  of  eight  thousand  souls  which  he  admin- 
isters. His  native  subjects,  it  appears,  are  very 
easy  to  live  with.  But  that  does  not  prevent  the 
solitude  from  weighing  on  him.  And  there  is  a 
great  deal  of  joy  for  him  in  the  thought  of  the 
next  stop  of  the  cruiser  Dupleix,  which  is  to  coal 
at  Mahe  in  a  week's  time.  The  Dupleix  at  Mahe ! 
History  is  certainly  nothing  but  repetitions. 


THE  COAST  OF  MALABAR          231 

"Well,  everything  is  doing  nicely,"  the  Admin- 
istrator said  to  me  jovially,  rubbing  his  hands;  "at 
least  for  a  while  I  shan't  have  to  eat  sardines  all 
by  myself!" 

But  an  end  to  joking.  A  horrifying,  repulsive, 
pitiful  spectacle  awaits  me  at  Cochin,  the  center 
of  the  plague,  cholera,  leprosy  and  elephantiasis. 

Cochin  is  situated  on  the  point  of  a  peninsula, 
on  a  sort  of  lagoon  which  one  reaches  by  steamboat 
from  Ernakulam,  the  terminus  of  the  railway.  The 
whole  trip,  before  one  reaches  this  last  spot,  pre- 
sents a  picturesque  panorama:  it  is  not  quite  the 
jungle,  since  one  can  see  emerging  here  and  there 
from  the  underbrush  oases  of  cocoanut  and  banana 
trees  and  clumps  of  bamboos  serving  as  enclosures, 
from  which  rise  up  flocks  of  crows  with  black 
heads  and  tails  and  chestnut-colored  wings.  In 
the  fields  the  peasants  go  about  naked  to  the  waist, 
their  heads  shaven,  with  the  exception  of  a  little 
round  tuft  on  the  very  top  of  their  skulls,  a  tuft 
knotted  into  a  chignon  and  flung  forward  on  the 
left  side,  sometimes  above  the  forehead.  The 
women  proudly  carry  their  whimpering  offspring 
on  their  backs,  lifting  high  their  fine,  firm  breasts 
which  have  never  known  the  torture  of  the  corset. 
The  language  spoken  by  these  people  is  Malay- 
sian, an  idiom  related  to  Tamil  but  nevertheless 


232  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

distinct.  One  finds  also  among  the  coast  popula- 
tions the  descendants  of  pure  Arab  stock  from  the 
land  of  Oman. 

Just  before  the  juncture  of  Schoranur,  where 
one  changes  cars,  our  train  receives  a  shock.  We 
stop.  The  cowcatcher  in  front  of  the  locomotive 
has  just  knocked  over  and  crushed  a  buffalo.  I 
lean  out  of  the  window  and  make  questioning  sig- 
nals to  the  conductor.  "Nothing,"  replies  this  far 
from  orthodox  Hindu,  as  he  whistles  to  start  again. 
These  things  happen  so  of  ten  I  .  .  .  We  continue 
on  our  way  without  troubling  any  more  about  the 
unhappy  beast  which,  its  side  torn,  is  dying  on  the 
embankment.  Through  the  palms,  stirred  now 
and  then  by  a  warm  breeze,  I  distinguish  the  bell- 
tower  of  a  Catholic  church.  Who  knows  whether 
in  this  forgotten  mission,  some  compatriot  of  ours 
is  not  leading  a  glorious  and  unknown  existence? 
...  At  the  stations,  the  armed  Sepoys,  infinitely 
respectful  of  the  white  man,  stand  at  attention  and 
give  me  the  military  salute.  On  the  quay  of  An- 
gamali,  the  first  station  of  the  independent  State 
of  the  Maharajah  of  Travancore,  my  boy  falls 
into  an  endless  and  very  inopportune  conversation 
with  one  of  his  friends  whom  he  has  met  by 
chance.  I  find  him  positively  comic,  this  friend, 
with  his  European  collar  and  necktie  fastened 


THE  COAST  OF  MALABAR  233 

over  a  pale  pink  shirt,  the  tails  of  which  float  out 
over  a  dirty  old  pair  of  gray  trousers.  But  this 
Hindu  fashion  of  wearing  the  shirt  should  not 
surprise  me;  have  I  not  already  noticed  it  among 
most  of  the  Afghans,  and  even  some  of  the  Kash- 
mirians?  I  get  off  at  Cochin  just  as  night  is  fall- 
ing. Everything  is  silent,  dark.  Not  a  carriage, 
not  a  horse,  not  a  draught-animal.  You  would 
think  you  were  in  Venice.  The  illusion  is  com- 
plete when  the  Malabar  gondolas  glide  noiselessly 
by  over  the  turgid  water  of  the  canals.  Shadows 
wander  along  the  single  interminable  street;  on 
the  doorsteps  are  crouching  bodies,  twisted  as  if 
in  convulsions,  whether  living  souls  asleep  or  dy- 
ing souls  in  agony,  one  does  not  know.  At  times 
the  highway  is  literally  blocked  with  animals:  I 
have  to  climb  circumspectly  over  a  veritable  bar- 
ricade of  horns,  the  horns  of  zebus,  rams  and  goats. 
My  boy  and  my  porters  follow  me  grumbling. 
What  an  extraordinary  arrival  in  this  mysterious, 
faraway  city  1 

Why  I  do  not  know,  but  this  first  night  I  sleep 
badly,  in  the  room  of  the  dawk-bungalow  where 
I  have  taken  up  my  quarters.  Intolerable  heat, 
mosquitoes  humming  ravenously  about  my  mos- 
quito netting,  creepings  and  crawlings  over  the 
straw  mattings  on  the  floor.  ...  A  certain  expe- 


234  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

rience  of  the  tropics  has  somewhat  hardened  me 
against  these  nocturnal  terrors ;  long  nights  passed 
under  a  tent  have  accustomed  me,  during  the  hours 
of  sleep,  to  the  company  of  insects  and  reptiles 
that  I  have  known  were  harmless.  To  tell  the 
truth,  I  am  more  affected  by  the  disconcerting 
manner  of  this  arrival  in  an  unknown  city  noto- 
riously unwholesome  and  dangerous,  owing  to  the 
contagious  diseases  that  abound  there,  a  city  to 
which  the  tourist  very  rarely  ventures. 

But  it  was  on  my  awakening  that  I  was  greeted 
with  the  true  nightmare.  Never  shall  I  forget 
the  frightful  spectacle  of  these  people  of  Cochin, 
dragging  through  the  streets,  through  the  alleys, 
along  the  canals,  the  spectral  horror  of  their  ills. 
On  all  sides  one  saw  nothing  but  frightfully  dis- 
tended legs  and  feet,  swollen  by  the  oedema  of 
elephantiasis — what  is  called  in  popular  medical 
language  the  Cochin  leg.  I  turn  away  with  pity 
and  nausea  from  these  unfortunates,  the  calves  of 
whose  legs  look  like  tree-trunks :  the  least  affected 
ones  look  as  if  they  were  wearing  heavy  sewer- 
man's  boots.  This  form  of  leprosy  is,  it  appears, 
hereditary  and  congenital;  it  is  due  principally  to 
impure  water.  Medical  treatment  brings  but  slight 
results;  the  only  consolation  of  the  sufferers  is  to 
see  how  many  others  (almost  all,  in  fact)  are  in 


THE  COAST  OF  MALABAR  235 

the  same  boat  with  themselves.  After  all,  these 
poor  wretches  do  not  seem  to  realize  the  full  im- 
port of  their  repulsive  infirmity.  The  absence  of 
pain  and  the  continuance  of  their  normal  lives 
have,  no  doubt,  much  to  do  with  this.  Some  of 
them  even  profit  by  the  disgust  which  they  inspire 
in  foreigners,  and  make  a  good  little  income  out 
of  it. 

But  nothing  equals  the  hideousness  of  the  lepers 
suffering  from  facial  lupus.  These  may  be  called 
the  living  dead;  their  faces,  devoured  by  the  dis- 
ease, are  nothing  but  one  wound.  No  fantastic 
vision  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe  could  give  any  idea  of 
these  flat  faces,  whose  eyes  devour  you  with  their 
lidless  stare,  whose  gaping  nasal  cavity  is  an  ooz- 
ing hole,  covered  with  flies,  whose  mouth,  lipless 
but  filled  with  dazzling  teeth,  is  fixed  in  a  per- 
petual, motionless  grin. 

Compared  with  these  disinherited  ones,  the 
mere  sight  of  whom  makes  me  ill,  the  immense 
mass  of  the  maimed  and  deformed  and  the  other 
Quasimodos  with  whom  the  town  swarms,  is  only 
an  Asiatic,  perhaps  a  slightly  more  brutal,  trans- 
position of  our  medieval  Court  of  Miracles.  I 
quickly  hail  a  rickshaw,  which  is  dashing  by.  It 
snatches  me  away  from  the  horde  that  surrounds 
me  and  to  which  I  throw  a  handful  of  small  coins. 


236  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

Claw-like  hands  stretch  out.  But  we  are  off  at 
full  speed  toward  the  British  cantonment  and  inde- 
pendent Cochin.  The  Maharajah  has  fixed  the 
sum  of  two  annas  as  the  toll-rate,  or  more  exactly 
the  entrance  fee,  into  his  State — a  curious  rem- 
nant of  Indian  feudalism,  which  the  European 
rulers  have  scrupulously  respected.  Hardly  have 
we  passed  the  boundary  when  an  armed  Sepoy 
rises  up  from  some  straw  and  warns  me  in  bad 
English  that  the  quarter  into  which  I  am  going 
is  at  the  moment  ravaged  by  the  plague.  This 
morning  they  have  burned  fifty  corpses  again.  I 
judge  it  more  prudent  to  retrace  my  path  and  post- 
pone my  visit  to  the  carved  wooden  temple  of 
native  Cochin. 

So  I  give  the  order:  "To  the  Jewish  quarter!" 
We  go  down  a  large  avenue,  then  through  a 
series  of  infinitely  curious  little  streets,  where  I 
want  to  stop  and  take  some  photographs.  But  to 
my  great  astonishment,  the  Malabar  boy  who  is 
pushing  me  refuses,  with  a  gentle  obstinacy,  to 
make  any  stop.  "No  good,  master,  no  good!"  And 
we  continue  on  our  wild  jolting  way.  A  few  hours 
later  I  learn  that  this  quarter  is  a  prey  to  cholera 
morbus.  I  have  had  a  narrow  escape!  But  here 
we  are  in  Kalvati,  where  the  White  Jews  live. 
At  the  end  of  this  quarter  we  can  already  see  the 


THE  COAST  OF  MALABAR  237 

outlines  of  the  houses  of  Mottancheri,  the  head- 
quarters of  the  colony  of  Black  Jews.  Hindu 
temples  and  synagogues  jostle  one  another.  On 
the  doorsteps  of  the  dwellings  are  beautiful  Jew- 
esses, with  white,  faintly  bronzed  skins,  whose 
type  recalls  that  of  Hagar  or  Rebecca.  The  men 
and  the  little  boys  are  almost  uniformly  clad  in 
light  pajamas  imported  from  the  Occident:  they 
have  bare  feet  thrust  into  sandals  or  slippers  and 
in  general  no  head-dress,  except  the  rabbis  and  old 
men,  who  wear  the  traditional  Jewish  turban. 
Altogether,  in  our  day,  these  White  Jews  number 
200.  The  date  of  their  immigration  goes  back 
to  the  last  destruction  of  the  Temple  of  Jerusalem. 
It  is  a  strange  thing,  but  this  little  agglomeration 
of  White  Jews  abstains  disdainfully  from  any  con- 
tact with  their  black-skinned  co-religionists.  These 
latter,  however,  are  the  converts  of  their  ancestors; 
the  same  Talmud  is  taught  without  distinction  in 
all  their  synagogues.  But  nothing  has  been  able 
to  prevail  against  the  prejudice  of  color. 

In  the  afternoon,  to  escape  the  sickening  spec- 
tacle of  the  lepers  and  the  victims  of  elephantiasis, 
I  lounge  about  the  port  and  wait  for  the  fishermen 
to  pull  in  their  nets.  Out  in  the  roads,  a  big  war- 
ship is  sending  up  from  her  smokestacks  heavy 


238  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

columns  of  black  smoke.  It  is  the  Gneisenau,  tne 
German  armored  cruiser,  manned  by  a  crew  of 
seven  hundred  and  charged,  this  year,  with  carry- 
ing the  Crown  Prince  on  a  hunting  trip  to  India. 
On  the  quay,  the  officers  and  sailors  come  and  go. 
My  fluency  in  their  tongue  permits  me  to  begin 
a  courteous  conversation  with  the  ship's  doctor, 
Herr  Gustav  Koch  of  Hamburg.  Through  him 
I  learn  that  the  dingey  which  has  just  brought  him 
to  shore  is  awaiting  three  charming  American 
ladies  and  two  of  their  compatriots,  one  of  whom 
is  a  consul,  who  have  asked  the  favor  of  being 
the  prince's  guests  and  visiting  his  warship. 

"If  you  wish  to  join  them,"  he  adds,  "nothing 
is  simpler.    Here  they  are.    Come  on  board  with 


us." 


"With  great  pleasure,  thank  you."  In  my  heart 
I  am  rejoicing  at  this  escape  from  the  obsession 
of  the  pathological  nightmare,  nor  am  I  displeased 
at  the  chance  to  do  a  little  authorized  spying  on 
the  enemy  ship.  The  dingey  comes  alongside. 
Salutations,  presentations  to  our  gracious  compan- 
ions; then  an  officer  gives  the  signal  for  departure. 

On  the  vessel  Commander  von  Uslar  and  his 
staff  are  awaiting  us. 

****** 


THE  COAST  OF  MALABAR  239 

The  years  have  gone  by. 

Why  must  the  remembrance  of  this  princely 
reception,  when  champagne  flowed  and  the  ship's 
orchestra  played  Yankee  Doodle  and  the  Mar- 
seillaise, be  forever  effaced  and  spoiled  hence- 
forth by  the  barbarous  bombardment  of  Papeete, 
the  work  of  this  same  Gneisenau,  sunk  shortly 
after  off  the  Falklands  by  the  valiant  British  fleet? 

Never  to  my  ear  could  those  seven  cannon  shots 
that  wished  us  farewell  at  Cochin  have  foretold 
the  unjustifiable  naval  attack  on  the  unfortified 
harbor  of  my  dear  and  poetic  Tahiti!  I  shall  al- 
ways see  in  imagination  the  panic  of  those  delight- 
ful and  indolent  Polynesian  islanders  fleeing  des- 
perately before  the  Teuton  shells,  and  imploring 
on  the  threshold  of  the  old  palace  of  Pomare  the 
protection  of  the  machine-guns  that  had  been  land- 
ed from  the  Zelee,  the  poor  Zelee,  shamefully 
bombarded  by  the  pirates  on  the  coral  seas! 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

MADURA  THE  MYSTERIOUS 

The  Mussulman  Moharram  at  Madura — Indian  Aissaouas — 
The  Great  Temple  and  its  treasures — Under  the  trading 
arcades  of  Poutou  Mandabam — Noon  in  the  streets — Last 
picture  of  India  which,  alas!  I  am  leaving. 

|  ROM  Trichinopoly  in  a  few  hours 
one  reaches  Madura,  the  holy  city 
of  southern  India,  the  Tamil  Ben- 
ares. 

What  strikes  you  on  entering  this 
city  is  the  total  absence  of  hotels, 
restaurants,  banks,  in  a  word  of  all  that  the  Eu- 
ropean, coming  from  Colombo  or  Madras,  thinks 
he  has  a  right  to  expect.  The  visitor  is  obliged 
to  take  his  meals  and  even  sleep  in  the  very  sta- 
tion of  Madura,  where  they  have  fitted  up  a  great 
dining-room  and  several  scantily  furnished  bed- 
rooms. There  is,  indeed,  a  dawk-bungalow  for 
the  use  of  strangers,  but  the  few  rooms  that  go 
to  make  it  up  are  uncomfortable  and  unsanitary; 

moreover,  one  is  exposed  to  the  promiscuity  of 

240 


THE    PAGODA    OF    JAMBUKESWAR,    NEAR    TRICHINOPOLY 


THE    ENVIRONS   OF    MADURA — THE    PAGODA    AND    POND    OF 
TEPPA-KULAM 


THE   CAR  OF  THE  JUGGERNAUT 


SR1RANGAN — ENTRANCE   TO   THE    TEMPLE 


MADURA  THE  MYSTERIOUS        241 

the  natives,  who  come  and  go  before  the  threshold, 
as  well  as  to  the  deafening  racket  of  wailing  in- 
fants and  beggars  stammering  out  their  long  and 
monotonous  litanies.  Do  not  look  in  Madura, 
therefore,  for  English  shops  and  street-cars.  So 
much  the  better!  There  is  an  unbelievable  amount 
of  local  color;  one  elbows  a  heterogeneous  assembly 
of  priests  and  merchants.  The  rarity  of  the  Eu- 
ropean note  is  more  striking  in  these  surroundings 
than  elsewhere.  In  the  matter  of  vehicles,  the 
little  ox-carts  called  djerkds  are  almost  the  only 
means  of  locomotion  in  this  ancient  city  of  Coro- 
mandel. 

When  I  stopped  off  there  for  the  first  time,  the 
great  Mussulman  feast  of  the  Moharram  was  in 
full  swing.  It  is  a  sort  of  carnival  which  takes 
place  once  a  year,  in  January,  and  lasts  eight  days. 
It  is  in  celebration  of  the  defeat  and  massacre  of 
the  sons  of  Hussein  and  Hassan  by  the  orthodox 
troops  of  Ali,  the  son-in-law  of  the  Prophet.  The 
fanatics  smear  themselves  with  wax,  daub  their 
faces  and  their  whole  bodies  with  violent  colors, 
trick  themselves  out  in  ragged  finery  of  all  shades, 
and  are  escorted  by  a  crowd  of  street  urchins. 
"Daou  seya  mandam  andreh!"  they  cry,  waving 
their  sabers  and  lances  ferociously  while,  out  of 
their  respected  paths,  the  drovers  pull  the  little 


242  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

zebus  with  their  painted  horns  and  their  backs 
laden  with  shellfish,  crying  in  their  turn,  "Ei!  E'i! 
'ttah!"  The  procession  takes  its  way  towards  a 
circle  dug  in  the  earth  and  filled  with  lighted 
coals,  in  one  of  the  village  squares.  These  A'is- 
saouas  then  dash  forward  with  savage  cries  toward 
the  burning  brazier,  which  they  tread  and  cross, 
some  running,  others  walking  slowly,  amid  the 
loud  acclamations  of  the  spectators  who  watch  the 
voluntary  martyrs  with  devotion. 

I  leave  these  possessed  spirits  and  these  madmen 
to  their  savage  practices  and  betake  myself  to  the 
Great  Temple,  which  is  certainly  entitled  to  be 
classed  among  the  architectural  marvels  of  the 
world.  To  reach  it  one  goes  down  the  great  high- 
way called  Permal-Kohil,  passing  the  pond  of  the 
same  name.  To  the  right  rises  the  church  of  the 
Catholic  mission  about  which  are  grouped  the 
richest  dwellings  of  the  Madura  merchants.  Then 
I  enter  the  West-Massis,  which  cuts  the  Permal- 
Kohil  at  right  angles.  There  my  curiosity  is  at- 
tracted by  the  capricious  little  designs  and  ara- 
besques, drawn  each  morning  in  many-colored 
chalks  on  the  pavement  in  front  of  the  houses,  as 
an  homage  to  the  tutelary  deity.  I  admire  also 
the  beautiful  fountain,  presented  to  her  fellow- 
citizens  by  a  rich  Hindu  lady  named  Lakchmi, 


MADURA  THE  MYSTERIOUS        243 

which  represents,  from  right  to  left,  Sobramanye, 
the  second  son  of  Siva,  then  Minakchi,  his  wife, 
then  Ganesa,  Siva's  eldest  son,  whose  elephant 
trunk  falls  in  classic  lines  over  his  beneficent 
navel.  And  here  is  the  great  street  of  the  West 
Tower,  leading  straight  to  the  colossal  temple,  at 
the  end  of  which,  to  the  right,  rises  a  little  votive 
altar  in  the  form  of  a  lingham.  (At  daybreak  old 
widows  with  shaven  heads  come  to  sprinkle  it  pi- 
ously with  red  and  white  powder.)  In  the  streets 
there  is  a  veritable  tintinnabulation  of  brace- 
lets, rings,  anklets,  and  those  ear-rings  that  pull 
the  lobe  far  down.  Among  poor  women  this  last 
ornament  is  called  pambaram,  among  the  rich 
itediki.  Very  strange,  also,  are  the  heavy  nose- 
pendants  called  mouketti,  and  those  fastened  to  the 
partition  of  the  nose  and  called  pillako.  Nothing 
could  be  more  droll,  finally,  than  those  shameless 
little  girls  and  those  quite  naked  babies  whose  only 
costume  consists  of  a  silver  heart  hung  from  their 
hips  by  a  cord. 

I  arrive  in  front  of  the  entrance  gopura.  It 
is  the  fourth  porch  of  the  West  Tower  within  the 
parallelogram  of  the  great  surrounding  wall;  its 
own  walls  are  painted  with  the  colors  of  Vishnu. 
Great  cocoanut  trees  with  waving  tops  sway  above 
the  flowering  bananas.  But  what  religious  majesty 


244  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

presides  over  the  entrance  to  the  South  Portal  of 
the  sanctuary!  Two  gigantic  stone  elephants  stand 
guard  there,  near  the  pond  of  the  Golden  Lotus. 
A  little  way  off  I  see  the  apocalyptic  Car  of  Jug- 
gernaut which,  during  the  great  festivals,  is 
dragged  by  human  arms  through  the  principal 
street  of  the  city.  About  it  are  grouped,  like  hum- 
ble satellites,  little  cars  covered  with  straw  or 
sheltered  under  a  hangar  of  corrugated  iron.  In 
our  day  there  are  still  men  fanatical  enough  to 
get  themselves  crushed  under  its  massive,  holy 
wheels.  This  thought  obsesses  me;  and  it  is  not 
without  a  certain  emotion  that  I  venture  for  the 
first  time  into  the  hall  of  Peret,  where  the  sacred 
paroquets,  cockatoos  and  parrots  are  chattering  in 
their  gilded  cages  suspended  from  the  walls  and 
from  vaults  moldy  with  saltpeter. 

How  can  one  express  the  marvel  of  those  splen- 
did high  reliefs  representing  elephants,  lions, 
monsters,  gods  and  goddesses,  grimacing  genii,  all 
carved  out  of  the  solid  blocks  of  stone  and  as  care- 
fully worked  as  the  Gothic  lace  of  our  cathedrals! 
In  striking  contrast,  there  rises  to  the  left,  encrust- 
ed, as  it  were,  on  the  breast  of  this  floral  sculpture, 
a  little  black  idol,  dirty,  greasy,  grotesquely  clad 
in  a  white  shirt  bordered  with  red.  It  is  my  sym- 
pathetic friend  Ganesa  again,  bidding  me  wel- 


MADURA  THE  MYSTERIOUS         245 

come.  Really  I  cannot  do  better  than  to  sprinkle 
his  pedestal,  as  the  custom  is,  with  a  libation  of 
cocoanut  milk. 

"The  Prakaram,  sahib  1" 

It  is  my  native  guide,  my  faithful  Subbaraya 
Pillai,  who  utters  this  exclamation  in  which  rever- 
ence and  fear  are  mingled.  One  of  the  mysterious 
galleries  of  the  temple  has  just  opened  before  me, 
a  second  interior,  covered  passage  where  reigns  a 
disquieting  half-light.  It  leads  to  the  great  hall 
where  the  priests,  on  certain  occasions,  are  accus- 
tomed to  spread  out  in  sumptuous  flat  baskets  the 
treasures  of  Minakchi,  the  Goddess-with-the-fish's- 
eyes.  It  is  very  seldom  that  one  can  see  these  treas- 
ures. The  Brahmans  do  not  permit  the  simple 
tourist  (even  if  he  is  furnished  with  British  recom- 
mendations from  high  quarters)  to  look  at  them 
save  at  a  charge  of  fifteen*  rupees,  in  addition  to 
a  tip  of  five  rupees  for  the  guardian.  Total,  about 
seven  dollars,  which  is  rather  dear.  Fortunately 
it  so  happened  that  on  my  visit  I  met  there  a  high 
English  official  from  Southern  India,  whose  guest 
I  had  been  in  the  country  of  Malabar.  Thanks  to 
him  I  was  able,  without  untying  my  purse,  to  view 
these  incomparable  treasures  piously  preserved  in 
a  cave  where  the  vampire  bats  wheel  and  flit  with 
their  funereal  laughter.  An  unbelievable  heap  of 


246  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

precious  stones,  most  of  them  square-cut  and  clum- 
sily inserted  in  their  mountings  of  chased  or  fill- 
greed  gold:  pearls,  rubies,  diamonds,  sapphires, 
emeralds,  beryls,  topazes,  etc.  .  .  .  The  diamonds 
attract  my  attention  particularly:  they  are  enor- 
mous but  badly  set  off,  rose-cut,  or  like  fragments 
of  glass,  sometimes  even  of  dull  glass.  We  are 
far  from  the  diamond-cutters  of  Amsterdam  and 
the  brilliant  displays  of  Paris!  ...  I  observe  the 
beautiful  tapestries  embroidered  with  pearls, 
head-dresses,  hats,  bonnets,  tunics  of  multi-colored 
silks  but  dirty — all  these  riches  displayed  with  a 
taste  that  is  na'ive  and  barbaric. 

I  next  visit  the  celebrated  Room  of  the  Thou- 
sand Columns  (in  reality  there  are  only  997). 
What  refinement  in  the  sculptures  and  the  orna- 
mentation! The  general  plan,  also,  is  worthy  of 
admiration  because  of  its  beautiful  and  severe  ar- 
rangement. In  this  hall  are  a  great  quantity  of 
pasteboard  masks  for  the  sacred  processions,  as 
well  as  tambourines  and  little  bells  used  to  an- 
nounce to  the  people  the  passage  of  the  idols.  Still 
preceded  by  my  guide,  without  whom  I  should 
certainly  lose  my  way  in  this  labyrinth,  I  proceed 
toward  the  dark  cavern  where  the  two  genii  with 
multiple  arms  and  legs,  who  are  named  Djea  and 
Vidjea,  defend  the  entrance  to  the  tabernacle. 


MADURA  THE  MYSTERIOUS        247 

There,  wrapped  in  its  swaddling-clothes,  dim  and 
indistinct,  is  the  grotesque  doll  that  represents  Siva 
the  Redoubtable.  Very  shortly  a  procession  is  go- 
ing to  carry  it  away.  .  .  . 

But  what  is  this?  From  the  altar  of  the  planets 
and  the  constellations,  a  pleasant  fruity  odor 
spreads  through  the  vault,  the  exhalations  of  flow- 
ers, fruits  and  sweet-smelling  oils  brought  by  the 
faithful.  A  great  throng  of  pilgrims,  in  fact,  has 
just  plunged  into  the  gallery  of  the  Prakaram,  in 
order  to  file,  their  offerings  in  their  hands,  before 
the  altar  of  the  sanguinary  Kali,  then  before  that 
of  Siva.  This  fresh  and  springlike  odor  pursues 
me  'to  the  exit.  In  the  darkness  through  which  I 
have  been  floundering,  in  the  chaos  of  this  incom- 
prehensible and  age-old  Sanskrit  theogony,  the 
whiffs  of  this  perfume  that  reach  my  nostrils  give 
me  a  delicious  sensation  of  renewal.  The  Euro- 
pean soul  feels  itself  so  constrained  in  the  mys- 
teries of  the  Hindu  religion,  the  secrets  of  which  it 
can  pierce  only  so  incompletely!  It  is  already  too 
Highly  favored  if  it  can  grasp  by  intuition  the 
sealed  meaning  of  the  rites  and  ceremonies  of 
which  it  is  the  witness. 

Bright  rays  of  sunshine  now  light  up  the  portal 
of  the  Minakchi-Na'ik  gallery.  It  is  here  that,  in 
the  evening  at  about  seven  o'clock,  the  Brahmans 


248  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

light  little  rudimentary  night-lights,  simple  wicks 
dipped  in  oil  which,  when  night  has  come,  illu- 
mine the  entrance  to  the  passages  and  caves.  Under 
the  arcades  young  girls  and  children  are  laughing- 
ly selling  flowers,  fruits  and  ex-votos,  little  per- 
fumed sachets,  seals  and  many-colored  powders; 
a  little  further  on  are  rice-cakes,  destined  to  feed 
the  pilgrims  and  the  guardians  of  the  immense 
pagoda.  On  the  steps  at  my  feet,  little  boys  are 
playing  and  quarreling;  their  heads  are  half- 
shaven,  after  the  fashion  of  Coromandel,  the  re- 
maining hair  being  fastened  together  in  tufts  or 
twisted  behind  the  head,  which  makes  them  look 
like  little  Chinese. 

"Salaam,  sahib,  salaam!" 

Leaving  their  games,  they  prostrate  themselves 
as  I  pass,  calling  down  on  me  all  the  blessings  of 
the  Brahmanistic  Trimurti.  The  whole  crowd  of 
them,  delighted  with  the  few  annas  I  have  thrown 
them,  have  dragged  me  toward  the  great  elephant 
dedicated  to  Siva.  Daubed  and  tatooed,  the  pachy- 
derm, fastened  by  its  feet  to  the  pillars  that  sur- 
round it,  swings  its  trunk  heavily  from  left  to  right 
and  breaks  forth,  from  moment  to  moment,  into 
a  long  trumpeting  that  tells  me  how  impatiently 
it  is  awaiting  my  titbits.  There  are  a  great  many 


MADURA  THE  MYSTERIOUS        249 

of  these  elephants  consecrated  to  the  divinities  in 
the  interior  of  the  temples.  The  piety  of  the  faith- 
ful, I  imagine,  provides  for  their  subsistence  more 
than  the  care  of  the  ushers  or  guardians  licensed 
by  the  British  authorities  and  entrusted  with  the 
policing  and  internal  administration. 

Here  I  am,  quite  outside  of  the  first  cincture  of 
the  temple,  in  the  merchants'  hall  called  Poutou 
Mandabam,  the  new  market  built  by  the  king 
Tirumala  Naik  in  the  seventeenth  century  of  our 
era,  and  which  cost  that  potentate  the  sum  of  five 
million  dollars.  Impossible  to  imagine,  still  more 
so  to  describe,  the  extravagant  richness  of  those 
four  rows  of  columns,  all  of  sculptured  stone, 
which  constitute  a  veritable  forest  of  high  and  low 
reliefs,  wrought  and  decorated  to  an  infinite  de- 
gree! Under  these  vaults,  the  bronze  and  copper 
merchants,  the  potters,  the  booksellers,  the  tailors, 
the  carpenters,  the  cabinet-makers,  the  goldsmiths 
toil  and  cry  their  wares,  squatting  on  the  ground. 
I  have  the  good  luck,  thanks  to  my  guide's  inter- 
preting, to  acquire  some  very  old  and  rare  forks 
of  chased  copper,  which  have  been  used  in  the 
sacrifices,  as  well  as  some  antique  statuettes  of  gods 
and  goddesses  destined  to  increase  my  little  Hindu 
pantheon. 


250  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

The  poignant  hour  of  departure  is  approacn- 
ing.  .  .  .  Before  I  enter  the  train  again  for  Tuti- 
corin,  Ceylon,  Java  and  Angkor,  I  want  to  fill  my 
eyes,  I  want  to  line  my  bags,  too,  with  all  those 
dear  knick-knacks  of  art  that  will  bring  India  back 
to  me. 

We  are  passing  through  the  last  wall  and  across 
the  city;  following  the  labyrinth  of  streets  and 
passages  under  the  hot  noonday  sun,  we  reach  the 
station.  We  file  past  the  shops  of  the  perfumers, 
preparing  their  pastes,  their  cosmetics  and  their 
unguents.  Very  curious,  these  shops,  in  the  back 
of  which  are  cages,  each  containing  a  living  skunk, 
the  glands  of  which,  as  we  know,  furnish  the  odor- 
ous matter  that  is  the  basis  of  Indian  perfumery. 
Some  young  girls  pass,  crowned  with  pinks  and 
smeared  with  curcuma.  Their  black  eyes  laugh 
in  their  saffron  faces.  They  are  on  their  way,  I 
see,  to  a  little  shop  to  buy  a  cocoanut  the  refreshing 
milk  of  which  they  will  eagerly  drink. 

Above  our  heads  eagles  are  wheeling,  ravens 
croaking,  while  palm-rats  chase  one  another  over 
the  tiled  roofs  and  the  interwoven  palms  and  mo- 
tionless lizards  bask  in  the  sunlight. 

It  is  the  noon  hour,  under  the  cloudless  sky  of 
India,  to  which  I  must  say  farewell  this  evening 


MADURA  THE  MYSTERIOUS     m   251 

(for  the  second  time,  alas!)  with  the  same  pang  at 
my  heart  and  the  same  grave  look  one  gives  to 
people  and  things  one  loves — and  that  one  must 
leave  without  the  absolute  certainty  of  seeing  them 
again. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


DEAD  HINDU  CITIES 

Mirages  of  the  past — Anuradhapura,  the  Cingalese  Nineveh — 
The  Javanese  temples  of  Mendoet  and  Boroboedoer — The 
life  of  Buddha  in  sculpture — Hindu  colonies  in  Cambodia 
— Angkor,  the  prodigious  and  mysterious. 

NE  of  the  most  vivid  and  lasting 
impressions  of  my  youth  as  a  stu- 
dent will  always  be  that  luminous 
morning  when,  for  the  first  time, 
I  climbed  up  the  Propylaeum  of  the 
Parthenon. 

I  had  not  mounted  the  Acropolis  with  the  de- 
sign of  making  there — after  the  fashion  of  Cha- 
teaubriand, Renan,  Barres — the  mystic  or  philo- 
sophical or  pagan  prayer  which  each  of  us,  ac- 
cording to  his  ego,  feels  rising  invincibly  to  his 
lips.  If  such  an  audacity  had  occurred  to  me  for 
a  moment,  the  insufficiency  of  my  means  would 
have  at  once  revealed  the  sacrilegiousness  of  it. 
Having  reached  the  summit  of  the  sacred  hill, 

therefore,  I  turned  and  looked  about.    And  I  was 

252 


DEAD  HINDU  CITIES  253 

immediately  seized,  conquered,  overwhelmed  by 
the  august  setting  and  the  serene  beauty  of  the 
place  of  prayer.  At  my  feet  a  second  city  had 
risen  up,  an  ancient  city,  how  different  from  the 
modern  city,  prosaic,  turbulent  and  busy.  For 
the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  saw  a  dead  city,  the 
Athens  of  Pericles,  of  Plato,  ^schylus  and  Phid- 
ias, to  which  my  still  recent  studies  in  the  human- 
ities had  so  tenderly  attached  me.  A  dead  city! 
Can  you  understand  what  magic  there  is  in  this 
word  for  a  twenty-year-old  spirit?  To  bend  over 
the  vestiges  of  the  past,  to  attempt  to  draw  out  its 
secret  by  reading  the  life  of  a  vanished  or  a  long 
submerged  people  on  the  bas-reliefs  of  a  wall  or 
the  columns  of  a  temple,  from  the  pillar  to  the 
frieze,  running  through  the  whole  scale  of  the  cap- 
ital, the  abacus,  the  architrave;  to  pick  out  along 
the  paved  streets  the  traces  of  cart-wheels ;  to  lean 
over  vaults  still  impregnated  with  whiffs  of  ancient 
incense  where  millions  of  prayers,  anthems,  im- 
precations, menacing  or  na'ive,  have,  as  it  were, 
crystallized.  Ah!  that  beautiful,  captivating, 
fascinating  search  1  How  one  feels  one's  whole 
self  vibrate  to  it,  senses,  heart  and  brain!  .  .  . 

It  was  in  this  way  that  I,  the  child  of  a  supreme- 
ly living  city,  Paris,  became,  during  the  course 
of  my  travels,  a  passionate  lover  of  dead  cities. 


254  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

And  in  particular  of  three  ancient  cities  of  Hindu 
colonists  that  shone,  centuries  and  centuries  ago, 
with  the  same  brilliancy  as  the  Greek  Alexandria 
in  Egypt,  and  the  Latin  Timgad  in  Algeria:  Anu- 
radhapura,  Boroboedoer,  Angkor!  .  .  .  Three 
names,  three  epochs,  three  glories  of  the  past,  of 
the  time  when  India,  the  prodigious  sower,  scat- 
tered its  excess  of  men  to  the  four  winds  of  the 
world,  in  order  to  reap  the  harvest  of  kingdoms  I 
Anuradhapura  is  the  barbarous  name  of  the 
ancient  Anuragrammum,  which  was  known  to  the 
Romans  and  was  for  twelve  centuries  the  capital 
of  Ceylon.  Situated  in  the  center  of  the  island, 
about  fifty-four  miles  from  Trincomalee  where 
the  pearl  fisheries  are,  it  bears  the  deep  imprint 
of  the  Hindu  influence  and  civilization.  Its  ruin 
and  devastation  were  the  work  equally  of  the  con- 
quering Tamils  and  Malabars,  whose  fanatical 
Brahmanism  had  driven  them  forth  in  a  crusade 
against  the  Buddhism  that  was  then  threatening  to 
win  over  the  entire  island.  Why  is  it  that  the 
passage  of  the  invaders  has  left — as  did  that  of  the 
Thai  at  Angkor — only  a  dead  city,  abandoned  and 
sacked,  about  which  the  jungle  has  protectingly 
wound  its  octopus-like  arms?  .  .  .  You  fall  into  a 
reverie  as  you  contemplate  these  temples  and  pal- 
aces which  were  built  two  centuries  before  Christ, 


DEAD  HINDU  CITIES  255 

the  home  of  a  splendor  and  magnificence  that  made 
Anuradhapura  the  rival  of  Babylon,  Nineveh  and 
Persepolis.  But  however  devastated  it  may  be  to- 
day, this  "City  buried  under  the  vines,"  as  Pierre 
Loti  has  exquisitely  named  it,  still  permits  us  a 
glimpse,  here  and  there,  of  some  marvel  which  is 
intact,  or  almost  intact:  the  fish-pond  of  Pokuna, 
a  short  distance  from  the  Queen's  Baths,  where 
only  the  bull-frogs,  the  tortoises  and  the  water 
adders  disport  themselves  today;  the  forest  of  col- 
umns of  the  pagoda  of  Lankarama,  with  its  almost 
Ionian  abaci;  the  decorative  cornice  of  the  great, 
massive  dagoba  of  Ruanwelli  and  its  curious  di- 
vinities with  their  head-dresses  of  hieratic  tiaras 
made  from  the  body  of  a  crocodile,  the  tail  of  a 
bird,  the  trunk  of  an  elephant;  the  upright  statues 
of  King  Dutughemunu  and  his  priests;  the  foun- 
dations and  courses  of  Abayashiri,  the  truncated 
column  of  which  dominates  all  the  surrounding 
country  from  the  top  of  its  hill ;  and  also  the  sculp- 
tured doorways  of  the  princely  and  priestly  dwell- 
ings, the  parvis  of  lunar  marble,  decorated  with  a 
procession  of  different  animals,  all  strikingly  life- 
like; finally  those  dreaming  Buddhas,  life-size, 
which  one  meets  at  every  step,  under  the  trees,  in 
the  branches,  and  which  almost  frighten  one  with 


256  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

their  fixed  gaze  and  the  tranquil,  mocking  expres- 
sion of  their  lips. 

Oh!  what  a  strange  thing  it  is,  this  necropolis  of 
stone,  over  which  the  sun  sheds  in  spots  a  light 
which  is  bright  indeed,  but  powerless  to  bring  to 
life  a  whole  past  of  activity,  luxury  and  opulence, 
of  tumultuous,  sensual,  frenzied  joy.  .  .  . 

Listen  to  this  old,  this  very  old  and  very  evoca- 
tive Cingalese  inscription: 

"Innumerable  are  the  temples  and  palaces  of 
Anuradhapura;  their  golden  cupolas  and  pavilions 
glitter  in  the  sunlight.  In  the  streets,  there  is  a 
multitude  of  soldiers  armed  with  bows  and  arrows. 
Elephants,  horses,  chariots,  thousands  of  men, 
come  and  go  continually.  There  are  jugglers, 
dancers,  musicians  of  divers  countries  whose  tim- 
bals  and  instruments  are  ornamented  with  gold. 
The  greatest  streets  are  those  of  the  Moon  and  the 
King,  the  street  covered  with  sand,  and  a  fourth. 
And  in  the  Street  of  the  Moon  there  are  eleven 
thousand  houses." 

And  today  all  this  that  once  lived,  laughed,  sang, 
loved  and  suffered,  all  this  is  nothing  but  a  king- 
dom of  crumbling  ruins,  gray  rubbish  and  verdure 
on  a  foundation  of  ocher-colored  earth. 

Sic  transit  gloria  mundi. 

Less  poetry,  less  reverie,  less  melancholy,  more 


TEPPA-KULAM — THE    TEMPLE    AND    STATUETTES   OF    KALI    THE    SLAYER 


MADURA — THE   GREAT    PAGODA 


BOROBOEDOER    (JAVA) — THE   GREAT   TEMPLE   DEDICATED   TO   BUDDHA 


GIANT    HEADS   OF    BUDDHA    OF   THE    CITY   OF    ANGOR-THOM 


DEAD  HINDU  CITIES  257 

religious  feeling  emanates  from  the  dead  cities  of 
Indo-Java. 

It  is  in  the  region  called  Midden-Java,  or  the 
heart  of  Java,  that  the  principal  monuments  of 
•Hindu  inspiration  are  assembled;  almost  all  of 
them  go  back  to  the  year  800  of  the  Sjaka  era,  that 
is  to  say,  to  the  ninth  century  of  our  Christian 
era.  Such,  for  example,  are  the  temples  of  Tjandi- 
Bima,  Prambanam  and  Mendoet,  which  reveal 
many  traits  in  common.  The  architecture  is  some- 
what heavy  and  squat,  without  real  grandeur;  here 
and  there,  among  the  confused  heaps  of  stones, 
one  finds  some  fragment  of  a  bas-relief,  some  alle- 
gorical statue  relating  to  the  theogony  of  the 
Vedas ;  strictly  speaking,  there  is  nothing  astonish- 
ing, nothing  unique,  save  perhaps  the  pagoda  of 
Mendoet,  which  the  volcano  Merapi  covered  with 
ashes  in  the  ninth  century  and  only  brought  to  light 
a  thousand  years  later.  The  square  base  of  this 
pagoda,  built  of  brick  covered  with  sandstone, 
gives  it  somewhat  the  appearance  of  a  mausoleum. 
The  bas-reliefs  that  adorn  it  represent  fables, 
among  them  the  apologue  of  the  tortoise  and  the 
two  ducks.  Other  symbolical  sculptures,  also,  are 
to  be  noted  a  little  to  the  front  of  the  steep,  pro- 
jecting stairway  that  passes  under  the  pyramidal 
vault.  In  the  interior  of  the  sanctuary  are  three 


258  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

colossal  figures  of  Buddha,  not  squatting,  in  the 
legendary  position,  but  seated  in  Occidental  fash- 
ion, the  head  aureoled  with  a  sort  of  flame.  At 
Tjandi-Sewoe,  another  archaeological  pilgrimage, 
there  are  only  ruins,  except  for  two  grimacing  and 
grotesque  kneeling  genii  that  seem  to  be  keeping 
guard  oyer  the  foundations  of  a  vanished  palace 
of  dreams. 

Quite  different  is  Boroboedoer,  the  marvel  of 
Java,  the  architectural  rival  of  Angkor. 

Boroboedoer  (the  construction  of  which  was 
contemporaneous  with  Charlemagne)  signifies  in 
Javanese  "Thousand  Buddhas."  It  is  a  strange 
vision,  a  building  the  first  and  last  of  its  kind,  re- 
sembling no  other  monument  of  Brahmanic  in- 
spiration; it  is,  if  I  dare  to  use  such  a  figure,  a 
hymn  in  stone  to  the  greater  glory  of  Buddha,  the 
Reformer. 

Imagine  an  immense  bell,  itself  adorned  with  a 
multitude  of  other  little  open-work  bells  carved 
upon  it,  the  whole  framed  by  the  summit  of  the 
volcano  Merapi,  nine  thousand  feet  high,  and  the 
peak  of  Mount  Soembing,  about  ten  thousand  feet 
high.  In  addition  to  its  pedestal,  which  is  par- 
tially buried  in  the  earth,  and  to  its  dagoba,  or 
central  bell-tower  which,  they  say,  shelters  some 
relics  of  the  great  Contemplator — the  temple  has 


DEAD  HINDU  CITIES  259 

seven  stories,  or  more  exactly  seven  terraces.  (Ob- 
serve this  number  seven  which  one  meets  myste- 
riously in  all  the  Sanskrit  myths,  and  for  which 
many  other  religions  show  an  elective  affinity.) 
About  one  hundred  and  sixty  feet  high  and  with 
a  total  length  of  about  three  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  feet,  the  edifice  is  turned  towards  the  four 
cardinal  points,  as  is  shown  by  the  four  stairways 
passing  under  the  curiously  carved  doorways.  Two 
hundred  statues  of  Buddha  and  fourteen  hundred 
bas-reliefs  serve  as  decorations. 

One  must  wander  at  one's  leisure  along  these 
galleries,  open  to  the  sky,  to  study  and  sometimes 
decipher  the  meaning  of  these  astonishing  sculp- 
tures which  Dr.  Leemans,  the  learned  Dutch 
archaeologist,  and  the  late  king  of  Siam,  Chula- 
longkorn,  brought  to  the  attention  of  the  civilized 
world  in  1896.  It  also  seems  likely  that  the  in- 
spiration of  Christianity — the  monument  dates 
from  the  ninth  century  of  our  era — was  not  abso- 
lutely foreign  to  those  who  adapted  certain  of  the 
legends  represented  there.  But  it  is  the  single 
instance  of  anything  being  borrowed  by  the  build- 
ers of  Boroboedoer  from  other  religions. 

While  at  Angkor  we  shall  soon  see  Buddhism 
and  Brahmanism  existing  side  by  side,  at  Boro- 
boedoer, on  the  contrary,  we  find  nothing  but  the 


26o  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

single,  final  glorification  of  Siddhartha  Gautama, 
surnamed  Cakya-Muni  (the  ascetic),  then  Bud- 
dha (he  who  comprehends).  In  all  the  bas-re- 
liefs that  run  along  the  base  of  the  friezes  of 
Boroboedoer,  cover  the  entablatures,  wind  along 
the  quasi-ogival  porticoes,  there  mounts  up  towards 
the  central  dagoba  as  it  were  an  interminable  ac- 
clamation. All  the  phases  of  the  life  of  the  Regen- 
erator, the  obscurest  as  well  as  the  most  glorious, 
are  respectfully  and  chronologically  recorded:  his 
birth,  first,  at  Kapilavastou,  in  the  garden  of  the 
Loubini  where,  as  the  king's  son,  surrounded  and 
adored  by  all  the  gods  in  the  Hindu  Pantheon,  he 
receives  on  the  head  a  rain  of  lotus  blossoms  fallen 
from  the  skies,  while  the  choirs  of  Bodhisattvas 
or  friendly  genii  intone  his  praises;  then  his  ado- 
lescence and  his  intellectual  precocity  which 
astonished  and  stupefied  his  masters  and  all  who 
surrounded  him ;  then  his  marriage  to  the  princess 
Gopa,  his  life  of  luxury  and  pleasure;  then,  on  a 
walk  one  day,  his  successive  meetings  with  an  old 
man,  a  leper,  a  corpse  and  a  monk,  and  the  reflec- 
tions suddenly  inspired  in  him  by  the  weakness 
and  nothingness  of  human  vanities ;  his  flight  from 
the  royal  palace  that  very  evening  to  go  and  taste 
among  the  philosophers  and  hermits  the  first-fruits 
of  the  pure  and  infinite  joys  of  the  Initiation ;  his 


DEAD  HINDU  CITIES  261 

retreat  for  six  years  in  a  distant  forest,  with  the 
animals  of  the  jungle  as  his  only  companions;  his 
instruction  and  his  fast  of  forty-nine  days  at  the 
foot  of  the  sacred  fig-tree,  the  Bo,  in  the  shade  of 
which,  struck  with  grace,  his  soul  finally  opened 
to  knowledge. 

Later  on  we  shall  see  him  surrounded  by  his 
favorite  Bhikchous,  wandering  all  over  India,  con- 
verting kings,  priests,  warriors,  beggars,  always 
humble  and  gentle,  preaching  his  belief,  his  head 
shaven,  his  body  wrapped  in  a  poor  sari  of  yellow 
cloth,  his  only  wealth  the  staff  and  the  bowl  from 
which  as  he  journeyed  he  ate  his  frugal  pittance. 
Then  the  circular  bas-relief — which  is  always  the 
same  and  unwinds  like  a  ribbon  from  the  base  to 
the  point  of  the  edifice — shows  us  the  death  of  the 
Reformer.  It  is  night.  .  .  .  The  Master,  eighty- 
one  years  old,  is  seated  in  his  favorite  pose  of  medi- 
tation; he  exhorts  his  disciples  to  follow  no  other 
guides  than  his  doctrine  and  their  own  conscience. 
.  .  .  The  first  ray  of  dawn  pierces  the  sky,  and 
Cakya-Muni  enters  into  ecstasy,  to  sink  gently  into 
death  and  the  Nirvana  of  his  dreams  and  hopes. 

Ah!  what  a  beautiful  missal  page  is  that,  carved 
in  the  living  rock  by  marvelous  artists  to  whom 
Faith,  even  more  than  the  wings  of  genius,  has 
given  the  secret  of  moving,  century  after  century, 


262  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

all  the  races  and  all  the  religious  beliefs,  without 
distinction,  of  our  humanity. 

Observe  how  far  aesthetic  pleonasm  can  go,  how 
far  it  can  insinuate  itself.  Here  are  little  cupolas,  in 
the  shape  of  hand-bells,  symmetrically  surround- 
ing the  central  dagoba  which  may  be  considered, 
if  you  wish,  the  chief  bell,  the  "Savoyarde"  of  this 
basilica.  There  are  thirty-two  of  them  on  the  first 
terrace,  twenty-four  on  the  second,  and  sixteen  on 
the  third.  Well,  they  all,  through  their  stone 
open-work,  permit  one  to  see  a  naked  Buddha 
seated  in  meditation.  The  idol — pardon  me!  the 
statue  (for  Cakya-Muni,  who  taught  that  other 
sages  had  existed  before  him,  never  demanded 
any  worship) — the  statue,  I  say,  is  enclosed  in  a 
sense  under  each  of  these  big  or  little  satellite  bells, 
and  so  well  enclosed  that  one  does  not  know 
whether  it  is  independent  or  forms  a  part  of  it. 
It  is  a  marvelous  achievement  of  art.  A  little  more 
and  we  should  expect  to  see  invisible  force  move 
and  set  ringing  these  stone  clappers,  with  their 
human  shapes,  giving  them  all  at  once  a  mysterious 
and  paradoxical  resonance.  .  .  . 

A  curious  thing!  Buddhism  has  almost  com- 
pletely disappeared  today  in  Java.  But  the  popu- 
lation about  Boroboedoer,  which  is  principally 
composed  of  Mussulmen  and  Chinese,  still  believe 


DEAD  HINDU  CITIES  263 

that  by  touching  one  of  these  imprisoned  statues 
one  imprisons  one's  happiness,  and  that  by  prostrat- 
ing oneself  and  praying  before  the  bas-relief  of  the 
birth  of  Buddha  one  is  certain  to  obtain  a  numer- 
ous posterity.  Islam,  which,  in  our  day,  has  re- 
placed Buddhism  in  most  of  the  Dutch  settlements 
of  this  island-India,  has  unfortunately  none  of 
these  charming  and  poetic  superstitions.  In  the 
Mohammedan  architecture  and  sculpture  of  the 
country  there  is  the  same  poverty  of  the  imagina- 
tion, the  same  insipidity  and  the  same  mediocrity. 
At  Sumatra,  as  at  Java,  I  have  seen,  masquerading 
under  the  pompous  name  of  mosques,  mere  com- 
monplace square  wooden  houses,  far  more,  I  must 
confess,  like  our  covered  European  markets  than 
the  splendors  of  marble  and  porphyry  which  I 
have  admired  at  St.  Sophia  in  Stamboul,  the 
Djumna-Mosjid  at  Delhi  and  the  Taj  at  Agra. 

And  now,  at  a  bound,  let  us  leap  the  space  that 
separates  Java,  the  Enchantress,  from  Angkor, 
that  marvelous  Angkor  to  which  every  one  of  us 
has  made  a  pilgrimage,  if  only  in  our  dreams!  .  .  . 

"Marvelous  Angkor  1" 

It  is  also  called  mysterious  Angkor  because  of 
its  enigmatic  history,  its  at  once  near  and  distant 
past,  its  uncertain  and  problematical  existence. 


264  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

...  If  you  question  some  Cambodian  about  it, 
wandering  through  this  desert  of  ruins  and  splen- 
dors, he  will  shake  his  head  with  a  half-Nirvanic 
smile  at  the  corner  of  his  lips:  "Winged  genii  built 
it  all  in  one  night.  .  .  ." 

And  you  will  go  your  way  charmed  with  the 
unsophisticated  and  deliciously  legendary  reply, 
without  any  other  enlightenment  about  these 
strange  Khmer,  about  the  genesis  of  their  colossal 
works  of  architecture  and  sculpture,  or  finally 
about  the  titanic  wave  that  engulfed  them  a  bare 
five  or  six  centuries  before  our  time.  What  we 
know  of  them,  or  what  we  believe  we  know  of 
them,  is  that  they  built  their  first  temples,  the 
Prakhan  and  the  Bayon,  for  example,  toward  the 
year  800  of  our  era,  and  reached  the  summit  of 
their  art  about  1200,  with  this  other  Parthenon, 
the  Great  Temple,  even  richer  and  more  grandiose 
than  Angkor- Vat.  Thus  while  we  in  Europe  were 
raising  heavenward  the  filigree-work  of  our 
Gothic  fleches,  they  were  continuing  to  make  the 
Hindu  basements  and  embankments,  the  marvelous 
bas-reliefs,  like  those  of  Egypt  and  Assyria,  and  to 
reproduce,  by  intuition  and  synthesis,  the  Doric 
column  and  the  Corinthian  capital.  But  what  is 
even  more  astounding  is  that  they  had  anticipated 
by  three  centuries  the  interlacing  of  Renaissance 


DEAD  HINDU  CITIES  265 

foliage.  Yes,  these  Khmer  conceived  before  we 
did  the  most  delicate  motifs  of  our  chateaus  of  the 
Loire!  .  .  .  The  same  efflorescence  of  stone  blos- 
soms today  at  Angkor-Vat  as  at  Blois,  with  this 
perhaps  paradoxical  difference,  that  its  obscurity, 
the  lava  at  its  roots  and  the  octopus-like  vines  have 
preserved  the  former  better  from  the  slow,  sure 
and  inexorable  devastation  of  time. 

But,  first  of  all,  who  were  they,  whence  did  they 
come,  those  whom  the  mystery  of  their  past  obliges 
us  to  call  merely  "the  Masters  of  Angkor"?  They 
were,  it  is  believed,  an  artistic  and  warlike  race, 
Brahmanistic  in  religion  and  probably  belonging 
to  the  caste  of  the  Brahmans.  And  it  must  have 
been  one  of  their  chiefs,  Kambu  by  name,  who 
founded  toward  the  fifth  century  of  our  era  the 
kingdom  called  Kambudjas,  whence  we  have  the 
modern  name  of  Cambodia.  The  only  exact 
knowledge  we  have  of  them  is  that  their  sway  over 
the  Indo-Chinese  country  which  they  established 
lasted  eight  centuries.  Eight  hundred  years  dur- 
ing which  they  raised,  to  the  glory  of  their  gods, 
immense  temples  surrounded  by  deep  moats  and 
ramparts  pierced  by  semi-pointed  doorways,  per- 
mitting the  passage  of  chariots  and  the  armed  war- 
elephants.  These  walls  and  moats  must  have  been 
intended  to  protect  the  princes,  priests,  divinities 


266  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

and  their  treasures  quite  as  much  as  to  increase 
the  mystery  that  enveloped  the  ceremonial  rites. 

Nor  must  it  be  supposed  that  Angkor  and  its  de- 
pendencies composed  an  isolated  group  in  the  land. 
Other  ruins,  almost  equally  admirable — such  as 
Pnom-Chisor  and  its  mediaeval  eagle's  nest  of  a 
citadel;  Prakhan  and  its  eight  kilometers  of  sur- 
rounding wall;  Vat-Nokor  and  its  pagoda,  Koh- 
Ker  and  many  other  sanctuaries,  today  lost  in  the 
jungle,  equally  deserve  the  visit  of  the  tourist  and 
the  inspection  of  the  archaeologist.  But  to  reach 
them  is  difficult,  almost  impossible;  for  the  time 
being  we  must  give  them  up. 

The  only  historic  data  we  have  that  can  tell  us 
anything  about  the  extent  and  frontiers  of  the  an- 
cient Khmer  kingdom  is  an  old  Chinese  inscrip- 
tion, going  back  to  the  year  650  of  our  era.  It  tells 
us  that  the  country  was  bounded  "on  the  north  by 
mountains  and  valleys,  on  the  south  by  a  great  lake 
and  swamps  that  were  often  flooded.  One  could 
count  as  many  as  thirty  cities  there,  dowered  with 
magnificent  buildings.  Each  city  was  peopled 
with  many  thousands  of  inhabitants." 

One  question  suggests  itself.  What  must  have 
been  the  course  followed  by  these  Hindus  as  far 
as  the  basin  of  the  Mekong? 

If  we  are  to  believe  M.  Foucher,  who  gave  his 


DEAD  HINDU  CITIES  267 

views  on  this  matter  in  a  lecture  before  the  Comite 
de  I'Asie  Frangaise,  in  1908,  we  should  be  correct 
in  ascribing  this  ethnical  Hinduization  to  priests 
of  the  rite  of  Siva  who  came  from  the  basin  of  the 
Ganges  in  successive  human  waves  which  were 
blended,  amalgamated,  with  the  conquered  popu- 
lations, constituting  at  each  influx  a  new  ruling 
class,  but  of  the  same  origin  as  the  old,  and  graft- 
ing itself  upon  the  former. 

The  regretted  General  de  Beylie,  in  his  work 
entitled  ^Architecture  Hindoue  en  Extreme- 
Orient,  takes  issue  with  this  hypothesis.  In  his 
opinion — based  on  certain  indications  given  by  the 
Chinese  annals  and  on  an  orographical  study  of 
Cambodia  also — civilization  was  brought  to  the 
peoples  of  this  part  of  Indo-China  not  by  Sivaite 
missionaries  but  by  adventurers,  exiles  or  traders 
who  came  by  sea.  These  immigrants  must  have 
come  originally  not  only  from  the  Dekkan  and 
southern  India,  but  even  from  the  coast  of  Orissa 
and  the  valley  of  the  Ganges,  especially  so  far  as 
concerns  the  coast  of  Burmah.  Their  point  of  de- 
parture may  have  been  Madras,  and  they  may 
have  put  in  at  different  ports  on  the  eastern  coast 
of  the  peninsula  of  Malacca,  with  frequent  chang- 
ings  of  ships  at  the  Isthmus  of  Kra,  to  end  their 


268  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

journey  among  the  deltas  of  the  Menam  and  the 
Mekong. 

As  for  us,  without  presuming  to  pass  judgment, 
let  us  state  emphatically  that  whether  they  came 
by  land  or  by  sea,  the  Hindu  colonists  brought  with 
them  a  mature  art,  genially  conceived  and  lavished 
on  everything  about  them,  as  a  delight  to  the  eyes, 
as  well  as  copings  for  their  monuments,  as  elab- 
orately and  carefully  decorated  as  a  piece  of 
jewelry,  and  even  the  three  materials  they  em- 
ployed, linonite,  sandstone  and  wood. 

But  whence  did  they  recruit  the  thousands  of 
artisans  necessary  for  the  realization  of  their 
grandiose  projects? 

It  is  probable  that  for  procuring,  transporting 
and  preparing  the  raw  materials  they  had  recourse 
to  the  conquered  peoples  who  had  been  reduced  to 
slavery  and  were  requisitioned  as  workmen  to  cut 
out  the  blocks  which  Hindu  artists,  recruited  from 
the  conquering  armies,  then  sculptured  and  fin- 
ished. And  here  I  must  stop  for  a  parenthesis, 
the  double  import  of  which,  social  and  philo- 
sophical, will  escape  no  one.  Before  Jesus  Christ, 
all  labor  was  forced  labor,  compulsory  labor,  slave 
labor.  History  and  archaeology  have  established 
irrefragably  that  the  pyramids  of  Gizeh,  the 
temples  of  Thebes,  the  Colosseum  of  Rome,  the 


DEAD  HINDU  CITIES  269 

sanctuaries  and  palaces  of  Anuradhapura,  Boro- 
doedoer  and  of  Angkor  were  the  work  of  an  en- 
slaved humanity.  Then  came  Christianity,  which 
loosened  all  chains.  Centuries  passed.  .  .  .  And 
presently  the  cathedrals,  Romanesque,  Gothic, 
Renaissance,  pure  jewels  set  by  hands  that  were 
free,  whether  voluntary  or  hired,  flung  heaven- 
ward their  golden  fleches,  like  rockets  of  liberation 
and  hope. 

But  to  return  to  the  Khmer  kingdom.  For  800 
years,  during  the  course  of  which  were  raised  the 
buildings  we  admire  today,  till  1250,  the  period 
of  decadence  and  weakness,  even  until  1296,  the 
date  at  which  the  Chinese  traveler  Tcheou-ta- 
Kouan  declares  that  "during  the  recent  wars  with 
the  Siamese  the  land  has  been  completely  devas- 
tated," dynasties  succeeded  one  another  there.  If 
we  accept  this  Chinese  report  we  may  suppose 
that  the  victorious  Thai  armies  crowned  the  hu- 
miliation of  the  conquered  by  destroying  the  proof 
of  their  genius  and  their  power  of  old.  But  it  is 
also  possible  that  the  slaves  of  the  Hindu  immi- 
grants, after  the  overthrow  of  their  conquerors  in 
the  thirteenth  century,  may  have  quite  simply  re- 
volted and  turned  their  fury  against  the  sanctuaries 
of  the  divinities  which  had  been  unfavorable  to 


270  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

them,  against  the  temples  and  palaces  the  construc- 
tion of  which  had  cost  them  so  much  hardship  and 
caused  so  many  deaths,  in  a  climate  so  feverish 
and  unwholesome  as  that  of  the  Great  Lake  of 
Cambodia. 

In  any  case,  whether  because  of  destruction  from 
the  outside  or  internal  mutiny,  it  is  probable  that 
we  are  confronted  by  an  act  of  vandalism.  In  fact, 
the  archaeologists  assure  us  that  the  majority  of 
the  ruins  could  not  have  been  caused  by  vegetable 
growth  or  by  seismic  disturbances,  which  are  un- 
known in  this  region.  Only  the  combined  effort 
of  several  hundred  men,  united  in  a  blind  rage  of 
destruction,  could  have  caused  such  wrack  and 
ruin  as  that,  for  example,  of  the  towers  and  the 
galleries  of  Prakhan.  We  can  pick  out  on  the 
ground  stones  that  are  intact  corresponding  to 
other  stones  in  perfect  condition  thai  have  re- 
mained in  their  places ;  and  we  observe,  also,  mas- 
sive parts  of  some  building  that  is  no  longer  any- 
thing but  a  heap  of  blocks  while  just  beside  it  there 
still  rises  a  light  wall  which  the  least  effort  might 
have  overthrown. 

Scientific  deductions  that  proceed,  unfortu- 
nately, from  nothing  but  conjectures  1  In  contrast 
to  the  Egyptians  and  the  Greeks,  the  Khmer,  if 
they  built  much,  scarcely  wrote  at  all.  Are  we 


DEAD  HINDU  CITIES  271 

perhaps  attributing  to  them  here  intentions  they 
never  possessed? 

But  my  traveler's  eyes,  the  eyes  of  one  who  has 
contemplated  so  many  august  ruins — Greece, 
Egypt,  Timgad,  Carthage,  Golconda,  Amber, 
Anuradhapura,  the  tombs  of  the  Mings  and  those 
of  Hue,  the  Hindu  temples  of  Java,  Boroboedoer 
and  Prambanan — my  traveler's,  my  pilgrim's 
eyes,  as  my  master  and  friend  Pierre  Loti  immor- 
tally said,  my  eyes  refused  to  solve  the  riddle,  they 
saw,  they  only  wished  to  see  the  marvel. 

And  it  is  this  marvel,  this  miracle  that  you 
should  hasten  to  visit,  for  it  is  impossible  that  five 
or  six  years  more  should  pass  without  the  most 
beautiful  ruins  in  the  world  being  definitely  clas- 
sified, visited,  swarmed  over  by  the  whole  Anglo- 
Saxondom  of  two  continents.  Too  many  Baed- 
ekers will  then  reel  off  their  anthems  under  the 
vaults  of  Angkor-Vat  or  the  domes  of  Angkor- 
Tom.  Who  knows,  even,  whether  the  present  com- 
fortable bungalow,  so  in  harmony  with  the  spot, 
will  not  be  replaced  by  some  Angkor  Palace  Hotel 
with  bedizened  and  obsequious  lackeys?  It  is  all 
wrong  that  the  amazement,  the  emotion  that  sim- 
mers in  you,  that  boils  up  and  boils  over  should 
be  diminished,  lessened,  destroyed  by  your  sur- 
roundings. The  poet,  the  artist,  the  thinker  that 


272  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

dreams  in  each  of  you  would  suffer  too  much  from 
contact  with  these  contingencies,  these  banalities. 
Go  alone  by  yourself,  therefore;  commune  with 
the  radiant  beauty  of  things,  enjoy  in  solitude,  as 
an  egoist — oh,  yes! — the  unspeakable  majesty  of 
these  places  of  prayer,  where  the  faith  that  moves 
mountains  once  heaped  up  the  most  disconcerting 
and  formidable  pile  of  stones  that  have  ever  been 
cut,  sculptured — I  was  about  to  say  chased. 

Ah!  how  triumphant  it  is,  the  arrival  on  ele- 
phant-back at  Angkor-Tom,  before  the  Ninevite 
glory  of  this  Bayon,  a  veritable  Tower  of  Babel 
with  a  human  face,  which  the  pick  of  the  late  M. 
Commaille,  its  learned  and  respectful  curator,  first 
shaved  of  its  too  thick  hair  of  fig  and  banana  trees! 
And  how  bewildered  the  spirit  is  in  the  presence 
of  such  a  grandeur  of  plan  and  such  exquisite  skill 
in  the  execution  of  these  bas-reliefs,  which  we  owe 
to  the  chisels  of  obscure  workmen  whose  name 
and  race  have  remained  unknown.  These  bas- 
reliefs — on  which  for  hundreds  and  hundreds  of 
yards  the  battles  of  the  peoples  on  foot,  on  horse- 
back, on  elephant-back,  in  junks,  unroll  them- 
selves— make  me  think  of  the  celebrated  motifs  of 
Boroboedoer  of  which  I  have  just  spoken  and  to 
which  they  are  often  compared.  But  if  it  is  true 
that  Javanese  statuary  brings  more  delicacy  and 


DEAD  HINDU  CITIES  273 

perfection  to  its  representation  of  the  life  of  Bud- 
dha, I  nevertheless  dare  to  affirm  here,  without 
fear  of  any  scientific  denial,  that  the  Khmer  statu- 
ary is  far  more  vigorous,  imaginative  and  varied 
than  its  fortunate  rival  in  Malaysia.  It  is  a  whole 
page  of  history  in  images,  or  rather  in  reliefs,  that 
we  live  through  again  in  the  Khmer  work.  What 
discoveries  are  waiting  for  the  patient  archaeolo- 
gist who  is  willing  to  stick  doggedly  to  this  beau- 
tiful and  noble  task!  .  .  . 

Along  with  the  epic  episodes  of  the  Vedas  and 
the  Ramayana,  along  with  the  churning  of  the 
"Ocean  of  Milk"  and  the  struggle  between  human 
beings  and  monkeys,  one  finds  in  them  savory  and 
picturesque  interpretations  of  the  Hindu  paradise 
and  hell.  The  heavens  are  represented  by  a  suc- 
cession of  thirty-seven  aerial  towers  with  three 
compartments  each.  Man  in  the  state  of  blessed- 
ness, fat  and  jovial,  occupies  the  central  chamber: 
he  has  the  features  of  a  prince  and  is  seated  on  a 
throne,  surrounded  by  beautiful  ladies  who  are 
fanning  him  and  offering  him  fruits  and  flowers, 
or  even  holding  out  to  him  an  oval  mirror.  Such 
— at  least  according  to  Brahma — are  the  conditions 
of  perfect  felicity.  One  might  well  consider  them 
monotonous  rather  than  delightful.  And  indeed, 
the  conception  of  the  Khmer  hell  seems  more 


274  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

subtle  even  in  its  puerility.  Let  us  pass  in  review, 
therefore,  some  of  the  tortures  of  the  condemned, 
whom  the  bas-reliefs  represent  with  their  human 
faces  each  one  more  skeleton-like  than  the  others. 
Here  is  the  savory  text: 

Inscription  6. 

"The  damned  who,  having  wealth,  have  never- 
theless practised  works  of  wickedness." 

Punishment:  "Condemned  to  be  thrown  upon 
thorny  trees,  skinned  and  scraped  with  a  grater." 

Inscription  8. 

"Those  who  cheat  or  rob  their  neighbors." 
Punishment:  "Tortured  alive  by  demons  who 

tear  out  their  tongue  and  drive  stakes  into  their 

mouth." 

Inscription  17. 

"Those  Who  steal  strong  liquors  or  approach  the 
wives  of  scholars." 

Punishment:  "Torn  by  vultures  and  thrown 
into  a  lake  of  liquid,  sticky  pus." 

Inscription  23. 

"Those  who  take  the  wife  of  a  friend." 
Punishment:  "Tortured  in  couples,  tied  fast, 
larded,  flung  into  a  frying  pan  and  cooked." 


DEAD  HINDU  CITIES  275 

(A  punishment  for  adultery  that  strangely  re- 
sembles the  recipe  for  a  good  French  country 
dish!) 

Inscription  27. 
"Those  who  steal  parasols." 
Punishment:  "Thrown  into  burning  braziers." 

Inscription  30. 

"Those  who  steal  flowers  from  a  garden." 
Punishment:  "Condemned  to  have  the  face  torn 

by  birds  of  prey,  then  to  be  later  fastened  to  thorny 

trees  and  pierced  by  arrows." 

(One  could  not  more  severely  act  the  part  of 

the  knight-guardian   of  the  rose  on   its  stem. — 

Pierced   by  arrows   for  having  picked   flowers? 

What  disloyal  rivalry  with  cruel  Cupid  1) 


But  with  your  permission  let  us  leave  this  Bayon, 
where  too  many  contradictions  disconcert  us. 
And,  crossing  the  encircling  walls  of  Angkor-Tom, 
let  us  plunge  for  a  few  moments  into  the  jungle. 
There  await  us  the  most  extraordinary  surprises 
of  nature  struggling  with  human  labor  and  art. 

There  is  Ta-Prom,  there  are  Ta-Menam  and 
Ta-Keo,  there  is  Prakhan,  all  those  old  sanctuaries 


276  MYSTERIOUS  INDIA 

covered  with  moss  and  forsaken  under  the  crum- 
bling ruins  on  which  one  puts  a  trembling  foot — 
the  anguish  of  sacrilege  or  the  fear  of  a  catas- 
trophe, who  knows? — fallen  pillars  over  which  one 
has  to  climb  like  a  goat,  crumbling  galleries  where 
one  slips  along  like  a  rat.  And  what  surprising 
discoveries  during  this  aerial  and  subterranean  ex- 
ploration, in  the  half-light  of  a  City  of  the  Sleep- 
ing Wood,  which  one  would  swear  had  been  drawn 
by  a  Gustave  Dore ! 

But  now  the  purple  or  salmon-colored  hour  of 
sunset  leads  us  back  to  that  unequaled  marvel,  the 
unique  and  prodigious  Angkor- Vat.  .  .  . 

It  rises  up,  the  Temple,  in  the  deep  sadness  of  a 
dying  sunset.  A  flush  of  rose-gold,  then  of  red, 
falls  full  on  its  five  massive  towers  where  the  bats, 
its  only  present  inhabitants,  are  already  in  flight, 
wheeling  and  clamoring. 

It  is  the  sacred  hour,  the  moving  hour  for  one  to 
scale  all  those  fairylike  terraces  and  after  them 
the  monumental,  the  almost  perpendicular  stair- 
way that  leads  to  the  Holy  of  Holies,  the  Taber- 
nacle. There  smile  eternally,  with  their  same 
ironic  and  kindly  smile,  the  Buddhas  of  all  sizes 
that  were  accumulated  by  the  piety  of  the  faithful ; 
there  the  divine  Apsaras,  their  breasts  erect,  their 
hands  gracefully  turned  palm  upwards,  still  dance, 


DEAD  HINDU  CITIES  277 

supple  and  wanton,  naked  virgins  haunted  by  noth- 
ing evil;  there  also,  on  the  lower  levels,  grin  the 
evil  and  shadowy  Asouras.  An  old  bonze  in  a 
yellow  robe  moves  to  and  fro  on  the  highest  ter- 
races of  the  building,  his  eye  anxious  and  scruti- 
nizing. He  comes  toward  you,  excuses  himself, 
mumbles  a  smile  between  his  black  teeth,  then 
lights,  one  by  one,  the  lamps  of  the  sanctuary.  The 
Faith  of  the  vanished  giants  who  built  this  mirage- 
like  acropolis  must  not  be  extinguished,  must  not 
die. 

Your  head  slightly  bowed,  you  descend  the 
temple  steps.  The  humble  and  touching  appeal  of 
the  yellow  man  has  stirred  you,  the  last  echo  of  a 
magnificent  epopee  that  has  grown  dim  in  this 
corner  of  decaying  stones  and  under  these  somber 
vaults. 

Angkor-Vat  has  fallen  asleep  under  the  caress 
of  the  twilight,  as  the  nymph  Viraja,  in  the  Sans- 
krit legend,  fell  asleep  under  the  kiss  of  Krishna 
the  Seducer. 


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